


The Dungeon Master

by EvilPeaches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood Play, Chains and Suspension, Choking, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dubious Things Happen, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Feminization Slurs, Fetishized Degradation, Frottage, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, Knife Play, M/M, Masturbation, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Rimming, Self-Hatred, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Straight Until They Aren't, Theon is a Womanizer, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-08-04 16:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 155,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16350323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilPeaches/pseuds/EvilPeaches
Summary: Theon Greyjoy writes songs in his rock band (The Drowned Wolves, haven’t you heard of them) and shreds on the guitar. He’s kind of a big deal. Problem is, recent criticism on the band has come to light and Theon’s latest lyrics are labeled as 'uninspired’. Fate finds him looking for inspiration of the darker sort and a bondage club seems as good as any place to reach his inner depths, maybe lose his identity for a few hours.Too bad he caught the eye of the wrong sort of Dungeon Master. Becoming someone else’s obsession was never the plan, but it sure makes a good song.Or: A rockstar with a tortured soul becomes entangled with man who probably won't make things better.





	1. Latex and Silent Screams

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. It all belongs to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> **AN:** I'm actually writing a large multi-chaptered fic, *gasp*. This story has been sitting around for a while, but the outline is absolutely complete and the end is nearly here! This starts out deceptively light, but will go dark fast as chapters progress. I really wanted to visit Theon being the Theon we all loved to hate before he met Ramsay...as in Theon is an obnoxious tramp. It's okay though...he will learn...and hopefully he learns fast. Please watch the tags, there may be triggers present.
> 
> **Please note:** Theon is purposely written in the first few chapters as we see him originally in the show: arrogant, overly obnoxious, extremely shallow, and needing validation of some sort. He will grow, don't worry. He's meant to be a douche/unlikable as we start out. If you find yourself disgusted with him, good, he's an asshat. 
> 
> At the heart of this story, we are examining the power dynamics of two men who have issues. There is moral ambiguity and sometimes a lack of morality on a whole. This story can be very dark and uncomfortable, do not let the summary fool you. 
> 
> Have fun XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to set the mood, head over to Tumblr via the link below and check out the awesome fic collage that the awesome **@xxhouse-of-psychopathsxx** made for this fic! I am so thrilled (they made a few collages for this story actually, so keep an eye out for links), so take a look! I'm super flattered that **@xxhouse-of-psychopathsxx** took the time to put these together for this story  <3  
> Thanks love!   
> [The Dungeon Master Fic Collage](https://xxhouse-of-psychopathsxx.tumblr.com/post/185486431189/the-dungeon-master-written-by-evilpeaches-on)

The crowd is wild tonight and it makes Theon’s veins sing with triumph as his fingers dance across the strings of his electric guitar. The sound of his black Schecter Hellraiser rips across the mob of people bouncing in the mosh pit alongside the sound of Jon’s guitar, the two of them going back to back to make the bitches go crazy.

Theon throws a wink and a grin as he slouches to shred while Jon grinds into his own guitar. Sure enough, the ladies scream desperately in the front row, some girls sobbing. The local cougars are out in force, drunk as lords, tottering on their high heels as they reach their hands forward hungrily. Theon wants to laugh, but instead he controls himself and sings out the next verse, his voice backed by Jon’s lower vocals.

Robb controls the bass guitar, the low throb a powerful growl holding up the base of the band. Gendry brings up the back with his drums, his strong arms flexing with effort as he flips his sticks in fancy tricks while playing. Theon doesn’t know how the guy is still dating Arya Stark; he can’t even count how many groupies would die to sit there and lick the dude’s biceps. Just his biceps.

Unreal.

He vaguely sees Jon flush as a girl in the front lifts her shirt up and flashes the stage. _Nice tits,_ he thinks, trying to stay focused on the music.

It gets hard sometimes. So many girls. So many out there acting like Theon’s king of the world. Goes straight to his head and sometimes straight to his cock.

Their pyrotechnician sets off a few rows of flames, heating up the stage impressively. The crowd roars its approval. The Drowned Wolves may not be the biggest band in history (and certainly not that successful) but they do know how to put on a good show. They are nearly a local legend, to hear Theon tell it.

When their set is finished for the night, Theon can’t tear the grin from his face. The crowd loves him and the feeling is incredible. On the stage with everyone cheering, he feels as though he is on a skyscraper, looking down at thousands of people crying with adoration, so in love with him.

Sweat drips down his back and Theon’s light eyes sweep over the crowd casually. He’s soaking it in, because there is no other feeling like it.

Now on to the hard part- the band party room and picking just one or two girls for the night.

 _And there will be so many choices,_ Theon thinks as he flicks his pick into the crowd of wailing girls.

Theon doesn’t wait to watch as the girls descend to the ground like a pack of lionesses fighting for a carcass. It’s just a guitar pick.

He descends with Robb down into the band room, grabbing a bottle of Jack off the nearest table. He takes a long pull from the bottle before Robb grabs it, grinning as he takes a few sips as well. Jon has that gloomy look on his face per the usual and Theon laughs, because he’s pretty sure that the ladies scare the crap out of the guy.

Gendry is already fighting off the groupies, trying to maneuver his way around them the best he can. He’s not very successful, too big of a guy, but Theon guesses it’s the thought that counts to Arya. It doesn’t take long for the music to start playing and the shots to start getting poured.

Theon is seven whiskey shots deep when he notices a few girls hanging off every word he slurs. He does what any self-respecting man would do; he grabs one and goes to get better acquainted. 

“Leaving already?” Gendry asks, still pretty lucid.

Theon gestures drunkenly to the girl next to him and grins. Gendry’s facial expression changes, but Theon’s vision is so blurry he can’t even tell what it has changed to.

“So, sweet cheeks, what’s your name?” Theon doesn’t hear what she says, but that suits him just fine, because he really doesn’t care anyway.

Just another face without a name to fade into the blur.

The rest of the night fades into a blur and Theon is happy for the escape. He’s so ripped he barely remembers his own name. Sometimes, it’s better that way.

He never amounted to much without the band, to tell the truth.

The truth always hurts.

* * *

 

Robb Stark isn’t all that surprised when his cell phone starts ringing a few short moments after ten in the morning. He sighs and picks up his phone, he doesn’t even need to see the name spread out across the top or the face with the silly grin that accompanies the caller’s ID. Robb knows who it is, hell, he knew this call would happen before he passed out drunk four short hours ago.

The alcohol is still flooding his veins.

“Where are you?” Robb asks, coughing a little to clear his sleep filled throat.

 Theon is whispering ridiculously on the other end of the line. “I don’t know yet, I’m still looking for all of my clothes. Why did you let me go home with this…thing? She’s not even a six in my book!”

Nearly choking on laughter, Robb pulls on his shoes and grabs his keys. “Well, you seemed _really_ into her at the time…”

Robb pulls the phone away from his ear briefly as Theon hisses into the phone in outrage. “ _What kind of a friend are you_?!”

“I’m the friend that knew I would be saving your arse this morning- and I knew last night. Hurry up and get outside and find me an address so I can come get you.”

“You prick,” Theon states blandly, “I’ll text it to you soon. Fuck the underwear, I can’t find it.”

“Girl probably stole it,” Robb chuckles, wincing as his hangover lashes out and causes his head to ache with the laughter.

“Hoes. Always after my D. Not that I can blame them,” Theon continues whispering, the sound of him slipping out of the house barely audible to Robb’s ears.

Frankly, Robb doesn’t know how the girls stand Theon, so there must be something to the dick stories. The guy never treated girls right, never had a long-term relationship. If Robb were blunt, he would guess that he is Theon’s longest relationship, being best friends.

That probably doesn’t count, but it’s a nice thought.

The Stark’s are the closest thing to family that Theon has. His mother is dead, went mad or some shit. His father never wanted Theon around the house, not after his brothers died. Theon was just a reminder of everything that could have been and everything that was already lost.

The sensitive youngest son, always looking for approval and never finding it.

Robb knows there’s a hole there in the center of Theon’s chest. The guy never speaks of it, but the rejection of his own family digs at him like needles, hooks that never let go. Robb isn’t one to exploit a friend, but all that past drama and sorrow put their first album out there for everyone to see.

They went from being a garage band to a widely loved local rock band nearly overnight.

Theon wrote songs that tore at the heart, songs that made girls go nuts over him, thinking that the Theon they would meet would be the one they heard in his music. Some tragic fucking soul that they all wanted a chance to fix. The only problem was that Theon’s pride never allowed him to show that wounded side.

Theon Greyjoy prefers to pretend that he’s the biggest dick in a hundred-mile radius instead.

Robb drives to the intersection that Theon specifies, almost laughing when he sees how rough the guy looks. He finally bursts out laughing when Theon stumbles into the car with his shoelaces untied. His sea green eyes are bleary with alcohol, pain, and sleep. “Go. Like right now. I don’t want her to catch me.”

“Fleeing another conquest?”

“You didn’t _see_ this girl.”

“ _I_ didn’t, but Gendry _did_.”

Theon grimaces and adjusts his junk in his jeans. He snags Robb’s sunglasses from the dash and puts them on, an air of injustice hanging about him. “That bastard.”

They arrive at Robb’s house shortly after, both Gendry and Jon already there looking worse for wear. Theon eyes Gendry and scowls. Gendry grins widely. The shit knew what he did.

Fighting hangovers, they begin practice again, just a usual jam session to try and get their minds off their aching skulls and nauseas bellies. It doesn’t go well, but they like to think their effort counts.

Sometime later, Arya stops by with a look of distaste on her face. Theon is pretty sure she always has a look of distaste on her face. He can’t understand why Gendry would tie himself to her and only her. So many other girls out there…

“Hey, did you guys see the latest reports about your show last night?” Arya moves to sit in Gendry’s lap, her pixie haircut wild.

Wiggling his eyes at her suggestively, just to watch her get uppity, Theon leers. “Not a chance, I was a little busy last night, if you get what I mean.”

Gendry chokes.

“I saw the daily mag come out. Magazine on the corner sound shop,” Jon says drolly, hidden behind his giant white sunglasses.

He tosses the small local magazine over to Theon who eagerly snatches it up. It never ceases to make his day when the local mags sing his praises. Outside of the band, hell, before the band, no one had ever said Theon did anything worthwhile. Let alone anything worth praise.

He needed it. He needed it like water. Like _air_.

Flipping to their page, Theon speed reads, eager to read about himself. The further he reads, the more his stomach sinks sickly.

“Do you see what they wrote?” Theon says with great indignation.

Robb leans over and grabs the magazine from Theon’s furious hands. “Well, let me read it before you crush it.”

Gendry runs his hands through his dark hair and sighs. “It can’t be that bad. Did they insult your fashion sense? Didn’t like your new tattoo?”

Theon doesn’t respond, but simply glowers in Gendry’s general direction. Arya glares back.

Clearing his throat, Robb reads aloud the words from the magazine. “Another packed show, another night of sensational entertainment, another night of Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy singing uninspired lyrics from their latest album. Lots of flash, but no substance.”

“ _Uninspired_. They called my fucking lyrics _uninspired_!” Theon’s so mad he could spit fire.

“I’m not sure why they had to drag me into it. I don’t write them,” Jon mutters darkly, taking a long pull from his beer.

Theon takes a brief moment to admire the fact that Jon is trying to cure his hangover with more poison. It’s straight out of Theon’s own book.

Robb shrugs his shoulders slowly. “I mean. They have a point.”

Seeing red momentarily, Theon cranes his head slowly to look at his oldest friend. “ _What_?”

Handing the magazine back to Theon, Robb sits back down on the arm of the black leather couch. “Your old lyrics held more meaning to you, didn’t they? Loss of family, betrayal, the violence of the Greyjoy family history. The new stuff…well.”

Hands tightening into fists, Theon stares Robb down. “Spit it out, why don’t you?”

“He’s trying to say the new lyrics are sell-out crap,” Jon offers helpfully with that low growl of his.

Standing up abruptly, Theon glares around the room and throws the magazine on the ground, stepping on it. “Well, fuck them,” and then he points at Robb, Jon, and Gendry in turn, “and fuck you, fuck you, _and_ fuck you, especially _you_.”

“Theon…” Robb calls after him exasperatedly.

“My lyrics are great,” Theon hollers as he storms out. “I’m the fucking shit!”

Jon just rolls his eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses. “Why is he in this band?”

Robb punches him in the shoulder. “Because sometimes he writes some really mess-up-your-mind lyrics. But mostly because he’s our brother.”

Jon nods. “Mostly that.”

 

* * *

 

In the silence of his apartment, Theon fumes.

The ache in his head isn’t any better, nor is the exhaustion in his bones, but he pulls out his bottle of Makers quick enough. He sits in his lazyboy and glowers at the ceiling, cursing out everyone he can think of.

It can’t be his fault. It’s not his fault that they didn’t get a stellar review. He’s better than that. Everyone knows he is. He’s not a failure.

The boil of rejection is close to his heart and it _stings_. They looked down on him, like he’s nothing, saying his lyrics are sell outs, that he’s out for a quick fix.

And maybe he is. Out for a quick fix, that is. His shoddy apartment is empty of personality, as vacant as he feels when he is alone with no one to pretend to. Alone with his thoughts is the worst time spent, because he’s his own worst critic.

Sometimes, he thinks he hates himself. The Stark’s tolerated him during his teenage years. His father hated him, there had to be a reason for that after all. He’s twenty-seven now and it’s been a downward spiral for as long as he can remember.

Why hasn’t he hit a bottom yet? Does one exist?

He dials a number on his phone and smiles numbly when he gets an almost immediate answer. Maybe he won’t be so alone after all. He can’t stand being alone. He can’t stand who he is and hates who he isn’t.

When Kyra arrives, she is carrying her duffel bag with her. “You know I have work tonight, right? I can’t just jump when you call.”

 _Yet, you always do,_ Theon thinks smugly.

“You already finished your shift at the bar…didn’t think it would be a problem.”

She’s the closest thing he has to a girlfriend, if he really thinks about it. She always comes back to him, even when he treats her poorly, even when he sleeps with other women at the drop of the hat. Kyra always told him that when he was ready to truly commit, she would be right there waiting.

The problem was, she could be waiting for a long while.

She sits down on his lap and strokes his hair, pursing her lips. She knows something is wrong, she always seems to know when he’s busting at the seams. “I have another job…at the Bolton club on Main.”

Shock barely registers in Theon’s buzzed state. “The Bolton club on Main? Like Roose Bolton’s kinky ass bar? What was that place called again? Not the fucking _Dreadfort_ is it?”

Everyone knows about Roose Bolton. The man owns multiple banks and multiple clubs around the city. He has his hands in anything shady on top of that. He has a reputation, a dark one. His bastard is apparently the stuff of nightmares, but a fucking rich one. They were old money, just as old as the Stark family. The difference is, the Bolton’s are still known for their ambition and the fact that they would attain their ends by any means possible.

No matter what the cost.

The Greyjoy family is an old family, but an old family in shambles. They are nothing like the big names like Stark and Bolton. The Greyjoy family fell into disrepair while the Bolton family grew in wealth and infamy.

“Why would you work in a club owned by him?”

Kyra shrugs. “It pays well. You should come by sometime. Might, ah…loosen you up a bit.”

Theon isn’t opposed to clubs. Just another place to become a face, one that the ladies can’t resist. “What kind of club is it? Something really freaky I bet.”

She whispers it in his ear and Theon jerks away from her, snickering. “What? You spank wrinkly men for fun?”

“I do not! You should still come check it out.”

Sneering at her, Theon says, “Why would I do that? I’m not dressing up in some leather getup. I’m not a weirdo.”

Why would he go to such a freakshow place when he can barely keep his own normal, functioning mask in place?

Hurt flashes across her face briefly, but Theon barely notices. She grips his chin and moves it side to side, as if shaking his head. “I heard about the articles they wrote about the band. They are calling you a sellout. Maybe you need to spend some time with yourself. The club can be very cathartic…and I know you carry a lot of sorrow in you.”

Theon scoffs. “Oh yeah, I’ll release my repressed emotions after some giant broad spanks me. Be real, Kyra.”

Rolling her eyes at him, Kyra grabs her duffle bag and enters the bathroom, getting dressed from the sound of it. _Leather, I bet_ , Theon thinks amusedly.

“I’d set you up with Dany, the Breaker of Chains. She’s new, but she works great with beginners.”

 _Breaker of Chains? Give me a break_ , Theon thinks, mentally rolling his eyes in disbelief.

However, Theon considers that a good-looking woman spanking him can’t be a bad thing. If anything, it could end up in the bedroom later. 

“Fine, I’ll fucking go. I’m bored anyway.”

 

* * *

 

The club is dark, thrumming with a low bass line and agony in the undercurrents. A well-endowed woman brushes past Theon, smelling of latex and leather, dragging a young man behind her on a leash. Theon raises his eyebrows in surprise and merely keeps wading through the crowd. His eyes drift up and he notices some people tied up, suspended from the ceiling with ropes, which doesn’t look too awful aside from that one girl trapped in an all latex suit, hanging like a broken bird _._

There are people in cages, naked, legs spread wide. Their feet appear shackled to the bottom of the iron cages as they look down on all the club goers beneath them. Theon hasn’t seen something this wild in a club before. Intriguing.

Making his way to the bar, Theon sits down and orders a whiskey, one ice cube. A small woman in a business suit is kneeling on her shins on top of one side of the bar, ropes winding around her body, contorting her chest down to her knees and her hands on her back. She is lapping at a bowl of wine as a man watches her from his bar seat. Theon grins widely.

He can’t believe he is here, he feels like all eyes are on him, like he doesn’t belong.  Or maybe they just recognize him, he’s a pretty recognizable fellow, after all.

He preens momentarily to himself at the thought. Bitches love him. Bitches love his cock.

“Arrogant smile, false sense of importance. You must be Theon.” The voice is smooth, yet bearing a patronizing air.

Theon swivels on his seat and finds himself face to face with a woman with long silver hair and eyes of violet. She is certainly exotic, but her beauty is slightly marred by the fact that she is looking down her nose at him. “Let me guess,” Theon says sarcastically, “You must be the Breaker of Balls.”

Her violet eyes narrow slightly, though her slight smile does not change. “Dany, Breaker of Chains.”

Theon shrugs his shoulders and smirks smugly. “My bad.”

She crowds into his space slowly and he can smell her perfume. It’s something elegant, fruity with a hint of vanilla. He likes it well enough. “Kyra told me you were looking for something…to give you inspiration again. Help you release many of your pent-up emotions.”

“Are you my shrink, lady?”

Dany’s eyes only darken further and she grabs him by the chin roughly. “Come over to my platform and find out, won’t you?”

Her eyes are memorizing and she’s beautiful enough to make him want more, to at least see what she can do.

This is how he ends up finding himself bent over a platform, his arms stretched out in front of him with his wrists tied. Dany is very calm and cordial as she explains how things work, rules and such. They agree on a safeword, but Theon secretly thinks the whole concept is bullshit. As if this slip of a woman could actually make him that concerned, worried for his own safety. What a laugh.

They start out lightly enough, Dany tying him in different contortions, showing her control over him. The only problem that Theon finds with it is the fact that he is just playing along, he already knows he doesn’t recognize her as any sort of authority. She’s just another pretty face with a bitchy attitude. She has the control that Theon _allows_ her to have.

It ruins the illusion.

“Harder,” Theon snaps after they move on to a hard paddle, Dany spanking him laughably.

His rear is probably red, and yes, it stings, but it isn’t what he needs. It’s not enough. Theon feels like he is waiting for something more, like he’s waiting for a game to start, but it never does. Another blow falls, causing him to flinch at the momentary pain, but he’s bored. He’s himself. This isn’t the emotionally changing experience Kyra told him about.

This isn’t mind-searing tragedy, burning his mind into pieces so that nothing remains.

“Can’t you hit harder, I’m counting sheep over here,” sneers Theon, trying to glower over his shoulder.

Dany digs her hand into his hair and kneels down next to him. Her fingernails scratch deep into his scalp as her hand tenses. Her eyes blaze furiously and her lip is curled. “I physically can’t hit you harder. Nor would I want to. I’m not looking for your agony, I’m looking for you to let go and let me take over for you.”

“I’m not letting you take over shit.”

Her lips remain frozen in their not-quite-a-smile shape. “You certainly don’t make things easy on yourself. I can see straight into your fucking mask. I don’t scare you enough, do I? I know someone who can. If you are looking for horror, I know who you’re better suited to.”

After she unties him with a glare, she points him in the direction of the downstairs. Down the stone stairway lit dimly with a red glowing light, aggressive and bloody. “The Master you are looking for is in the last door in the first hall.”

Pulling up his pants, Theon buckles his belt and marches himself away from the platform, not giving the Breaker of Chains another glance. If he had looked at her, he would have seen a look of pity on her face. He sees a few club goers around them, the ones who had been observing, give him looks of distaste. They are looking at him like he’s a disappointing child who’s proven he’s no good. Well, shit, Theon is acquainted with that well enough. Mustering his most venomous look, Theon flicks them off, saying, “Shows over, fucks. Get a life, stop watching mine.”

He saunters down the stairs, absently rubbing a hand across his rear. There are couples hanging about the walls, locked in amorous engagements. Theon rolls his eyes, already cursing himself for not getting a fucking lay after going through all of this crap.

“Theon? Where are you going?”

Theon turns and sees Kyra leading a man towards one of the other non-descript doors. She is looking at him with great concern on her face. Theon shrugs and jerks his head towards the far hall. “The Breaker of Balls sent me to a different ‘master’. She thinks I’m a pain in the ass, I can tell. She couldn’t handle this.” He grabs his crotch in a most rude fashion.

Kyra doesn’t laugh like she normally would. She eyes the next hall darkly. “Theon…just go home. You won’t like what you find in that hall.”

Chuckling, Theon says, “Oh come off it! You told me to come try this place, I’m trying it to its fullest.”

“I’m _serious_ ,” she snaps.

Eyeing the man beside her, measuring him, Theon idly responds, “It’s okay, babe. I’m a big boy.”

Leading her companion into the next room, Kyra says ominously, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Moving down another hall, he sees a dark, rusty red door at the end of the way. Two men stand outside the door, smoking. “I thought this was a no smoking establishment,” Theon snarks, looking down at the two poorly groomed men.

One guy, a blonde, spits as he looks Theon up and down dubiously. “Are you lost, Princess?”

Widening his eyes mockingly, Theon says, “Uh, no. The Breaker of Balls sent me here. New master for me, she says. Her slaps and paddles just weren’t cutting it.”

The two men look at each other, dark amusement in their eyes. “You’re new here. You’re in the wrong place, boy. Walk back up those stairs and march yourself back to the Dragon Queen.”

Theon shoves one of them roughly. “I’m not fucking lost, you troll.”

The cruel humor slides off of their faces. The blonde man shrugs and steps aside. “Suit yourself. Don’t say we didn’t try to do you any favors, _Princess_.”

As Theon walks past and swings the door open, he hears one of the men sneer, “Watch your face, pretty boy.”

He doesn’t have much time to ponder the words as he stares into the darkness ahead of him, missing the sign above the door that says, “Our Blades Are Sharp”.

The room is covered in darkness aside from a single chair in the center of the room. A single red light is on directly above the chair, shining aggressive light down onto it and the black latex mask on the chair. Theon can see nothing else about the room and it makes him hesitate in the doorway.

“Step in.” The voice is low, a command if Theon ever heard one.

The other thing Theon notices about the voice makes his nose wrinkle with distaste. “You’re a man.”

“Very good. You’re so astute. Step in. Now.” The note of sarcasm is laced with danger and Theon still can’t see anything else in the room.

He has no idea who is waiting for him and it makes him uncomfortable. Theon doesn’t like being made uncomfortable, not fucking one bit.

With dark impatience, the voice says, “Are you simply stupid or are you afraid? If you’re too afraid to enter, you’ve come to the wrong place, boy.”

 _Boy? Who_ is _this asshole,_ Theon thinks, fury strengthening his resolve. No one calls him a fucking coward. Shoving down his nerves, the ones screaming not to enter the dark lair, Theon steps into the room and walks forward a few steps, trying to see into the darkness.

The door slams behind him loudly, metal on metal, screeching like a banshee. With that, the sounds of the club above disappear. He can’t even hear the steady thrum of the bass through the walls. There is only darkness and silence.

“The hood. Put it on.”

There is nothing in the world that Theon would like to do less. He steps a few feet closer to the chair and notices that the latex mask is indeed a hood, one that would cover his entire face. No eyeholes, nose holes, nothing. Nothing but sense deprivation.

Everything inside of Theon screams no, recoils away from the horrifying hood. The warning bells are going off in his head like the wail of an ambulance siren.

“Put. It. On. Then kneel with your arms behind your back.”

Theon inhales deeply. Same old game, same old ‘kneel’ and ‘may I have another’. This is just all part of the act, the scene. The hood is the only thing different here. That and the one wielding the power. Or the one who thinks they have the power, anyway. They only have what Theon gives them. With shaking hands, Theon grasps the latex hood, feeling something curl up and die inside of him as his fingers touch the material.

The hood isn’t even on his head yet and already he feels like he is suffocating.

He’s not going to like this and he already knows it. _Then why can’t you stop? Why can’t you turn around and walk the fuck out?_

He curses himself and his stupid pride. He’s _not_ a coward.

 _Could you be looking for a real thrill? Are you scared? Really scared? Does that excite you, you freak?_ Theon mentally curses himself, hating the thought track his mind has fallen onto.

Letting out a shaky breath, Theon struggles to pull the hood over his face, trying to contain his fear. The hood is tight, like a well fitted mask, only he can’t see anything out of it and can barely breathe through it. It grips his face tight and though he has never been claustrophobic, he fears he might be after this.

Out of nowhere, a force slams into the back of Theon’s legs, sending him down to his knees roughly. He is so unprepared, so unable see and he has no time to brace the impact with his hands. His kneecaps groan as they hit the cement hard. Theon curses loudly, trying to channel the pain away from himself.

“My apologies. I thought I told you to _kneel_.” The tone is almost conversational, like they are just having fucking tea instead of standing in a fucking murder room.

Theon can barely tell where the man is in the open space. The hood dampens all of his senses and heightens his fear beyond anything he has felt in the club before. He can’t see and can barely breathe; the atmosphere is swallowing him alive, like Theon is sinking in quicksand.

His heart is pounding in his ears.

In a desperate grab to regain some form of sanity or safety rail, Theon begins to babble. “Listen, there has to be some rules, doesn’t there? Right? You can’t touch my face-”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Theon is hit by a train, a hit that knocks him sideways with a burst of red hot flame along his right cheekbone.

The shock of being struck is drowned out by the fact that someone just backhanded him across the face so hard that he shakes. It is almost like a welcome hello, only this man is introducing his strength. “Hey asshole! Don’t you know who I am!?” Theon snarls, false bravado coloring his voice.

“I don’t care who you think you are.”

Breathing heavily into the mask, Theon raises a hand to his aching face, absenting tonguing his teeth to make sure none are missing. “You can’t touch my face. I work in the public-”

A knee crashes into the middle of his back, out of nowhere, causing Theon to holler in agony. The man keeps his knee in his back, pressing him forward onto his stomach. “You see, I keep hearing you tell me what I _can’t_ do. You don’t seem to be getting the picture that there is nothing I can’t do to you here. You crawled in here looking for me and you’re going to crawl out when I say so. And you will crawl, that I can assure you.”

Theon’s mind spins madly. This can’t be fucking legal! He struggles violently, trying to get up onto his feet, but the iron strength behind him keeps him pinned. For a moment, his inhales and exhales become so labored, so wild that he can barely get air, the latex suffocating him.

If he could see, he would have been seeing stars across his vision. His limbs start to go numb and Theon shakes uncontrollably. Air isn’t coming and he’s going to fucking pass out with some fucking monster standing on his back.

A warm, strong hand covers the back of his neck. “I need you to breathe slower.”

Panting, Theon gasps out, “I…I can’t. I fucking can’t breathe. Please…”

“Say please again and you won’t like what I do. Breathe slower. _Now_.”

Fighting unconsciousness, Theon tries to breathe deep and slow the best he can, feeling his heart racing in his chest. It takes a few minutes of him gasping like a dying fish, but eventually air reaches his lungs again and the sensation of being faint alleviates slightly.

A gentle pat on his head. “Good boy. Seems you can listen? Not totally useless after all.”

The pat makes Theon feel like a dog and the word useless has him thinking of the way his father always looked at him like he was nothing but the dirt under his feet. The memory burns in Theon’s stomach, tossing and turning his dinner sickly.

“Let’s start with something simple and see how you behave.”

_Something simple? What the hell was all of that then?_

The man moves away from Theon, walking away to rifle through something on the other side of the room. Then, all goes silent once more, as if the man has left. Only, the door never screeches open, so Theon knows the man is still there, watching him. Watching him sweat like a scared bitch.

Sick fuck is probably enjoying it too.

There comes a strange whistle through the air, almost like something being thrown. It only takes a few moments for Theon to register that it is something in the man’s hand, something thin because it connects with his clothed back with a flash of agony, red sparking in his latex blocked vision. The scream that tears from Theon’s throat is more shocked than outraged.

In quick succession, three more strikes land loudly on Theon’s back, nearly stealing the air from his lungs with sheer pain.

His back burns as if on fire and he’s never felt something like this before. The blows were ten times the strength of the female doms in the club and even faster. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Theon spits out, “I’m-”

“Nothing. You. Are. Nothing.” The voice is emotionless, as if he hadn’t just beaten the crap out of Theon’s back with a horse whip.

 _You’ve always been nothing, haven’t you,_ Theon’s thoughts tell him traitorously.

Theon wants to breathe without the damn mask, he wants to see who is doing this to him, who makes him feel like a child standing before his father once more, pain and all.

“Can you take this damn mask off me?” Theon snaps weakly, his nerves racing.

He sounds like something straight out of Star Wars, his voice muffled through the latex hood.

He doesn’t like that he can’t see this man. His veins feel like fire as his heart pounds in his chest. The sensation makes him feel like an animal, helpless on the forest ground, wondering what predator lurks in the dark, waiting to pounce.

“I have no interest in seeing your eyes.” A soft whistling sound briefly cut the silence and Theon flinches, expecting another blow.

This time, it’s something worse. His shirt sleeve is moved to the side and the sensation of ice cold kisses his shoulder, then stinging pain. The feeling is so different that it takes Theon a moment to realize the man is cutting him with a knife. “You sick fuck! What do you think you’re doing?”

The soft sound comes again and now Theon can already visualize the blade swirling around the other man’s fingers, deftly, like some sort of demonic surgeon.

There is silence for a moment, aside from Theon’s ragged gasping. Then-

“Are you a Momma’s boy? You act like one. _So_ self-important. Disgusting.”

Raging, Theon tries to crawl away from the man behind him. “My mother is dead. Try again, freak.”

“She is? Well. That changes things. You act self-important because you already know you are nothing. Worthless. _Useless_.”

Theon winces at the word, hearing his father yelling it at him on repeat.

_You are worthless, useless useless useless useless useless useless useless…._

The blade caresses his neck, making Theon go still. “That leaves dear old Daddy. Never loved you much, did he? I think I can see why. You’re pathetic, talking big talk like you can back it up. Hiding like the sad little boy you are behind big tough words.”

Trying to not move least he get cut, Theon grits out, “Shut up. You know dick.”

“If I know dick, is that why yours is hard in your jeans? I bet that’s the first jolly you’ve gotten all night.”

Horror crawls down Theon’s spine. He contemplates his body and realizes the man is right; his cock is hard, his heart pounding out of fear. Against all that he knows, Theon hasn’t felt this sort of arousal before, mixed with terror and thrill.

The idea that he cannot stop what happens to him only seems to bring his sick libido more ecstasy. _You’ve always been such a freak_ , Theon thinks with mortification.

He’s never hated himself more than in this moment.

“I’m not a fucking faggot,” Theon stutters out, hating how his voice quivers with his nerves.

There is a soft scoff and though Theon can’t see through the hood, he can feel that the man has his face close beside Theon’s. The hand on his neck his strong and hot, so different than that of a woman’s and it terrifies him more than he thought it would.

There comes a whisper beside his ear. “Neither am I. I have no interest in male subs. Yet, here you are.”

Panting hard into the hood, panicking due to the lack of air the latex allowed, Theon feels a wave of dizziness hit him like a hammer. “This was a mistake,” he croaks out.

A sharp laugh close to the back of his neck makes him flinch violently. “You’re here because you’re looking for something more. You think I have what you’re looking for.”

Theon shakes his head back and forth, fighting nausea. He can’t fucking breathe. “I’m not. I’m not looking for anything!”

A firm hand grabs him suddenly by the face and a cry breaks out of Theon’s lips, terrified he can’t control what happens next. “Admit it. You asked for harder, harder, harder, and no one could fill that ask. No one but me. I can give you what you’re looking for and more.”

“I’m not looking for anything!” Theon cries out, trying to twist away. “This was all a mistake!”

Everything is going red in his mind, his back on fire and his shoulder warm with the gentle drip of blood as it streaks down his bicep.

A hand covers his nose over the hood briefly, cutting off much of his remaining air. “Don’t lie. Not to me.”

“The truth is, you’re a freak and I don’t want any of this,” Theon chokes out, his panic beginning to settle in once more.

“Then why are you _here_?” The hand on his neck tightens and Theon grapples with it, begging the invisible man to stop.

He doesn’t and soon Theon can barely get air to his burning lungs.

Moments pass in a swirl of noises like an animal dying and grappling. Theon twists as hard as he can, but he can’t escape his fate. The man will not let up. He won’t let Theon breathe, because he doesn’t want him to.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize he has no control here in this room. There is nothing he can do to prevent what is happening. Nothing he can say to sway this man from his iron course. He fights and struggles against his opponent, but time and time again he is crushed into submission. The other man cannot be unseated from his throne of domination. Ridiculously, the fear peaks in Theon and suddenly burns out in a flash.

Theon can’t fucking breathe and maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. His back screams in agony, blurring into a red emotion that makes his cock swell inexplicably.

His body sags and gives up, his mind crumbles and kneels. He’s not responsible, he’s left his body, he’s given his agency up. He’s left it in the hands of this stranger, this man with his icy voice.

The moment of calm leads into darkness and then Theon knows no more.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes, he is lying on a cot with threadbare sheets. He sits up, rubbing his face, trying to feel if it’s still there. He had a horror-show thought upon waking that the latex hood might have become one with his flesh, never to be removed, that he would become this _thing_ with no identifying features. The idea of it has Theon shaking, his anxiety pumping his heart into overtime. It takes a few moments of feeling his face to convince himself that the latex hood is gone and Theon shudders in relief. He takes a moment to take a mental catalogue of his body, fearful that he’s broken. His throat hurts something fierce and his back aches, a dull throb now.

“How are you feeling? Do you need water?” Kyra appears beside him, looking down at him with worried eyes.

Theon tries to speak, but only a gurgle comes out. Panicking, he tries to speak again but nothing comes out.

Kyra only nods sadly, her eyes wet. “Don’t try to speak. He didn’t crush it, but he did…ah…bruise you pretty bad. You’re in the recovery room, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

 _Isn’t it his job to make sure I’m okay after all that bullshit,_ Theon thinks furiously.

Seeing the anger in his eyes, Kyra runs her fingers through his sweaty hair sadly. “I told you that you wouldn’t like what you found.”

 _Who is he?_ Theon wants to know. He’s never wanted to know something more. Who is the man in the dark room, the first man since his father to ever put fear in his heart?

 _He hits hard._ Theon isn’t even sure he’s been hit that hard in his life and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

As if hearing his thoughts, Kyra gives him a small sip of water from a bottle. “Don’t see him again, Theon. Please don’t.”

 _Who is he_?

Theon fears he will never know.

All Theon can think about as he looks in the mirror, taking in the dark bruising on his cheekbone and the devastation that is his throat is: _how will I sing?_

* * *

 

 _Am I the man that I promised to be_  
_Did I let you down, tarnish your crown_  
_Cause everything is wrong, everything is wrong_

_"Everything’s Wrong" - All That Remains_


	2. This is What You Came For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I don't own Game of Thrones or the Characters. They all belong to George R. R. Martin.

The sun is already bright when Theon deigns to get out of bed, the sounds of cars rushing by outside his apartment white noise in his mind. He doesn’t really remember how he ended up in bed by himself, he vaguely recalls Kyra driving him home once he felt stable enough to walk by himself.

In that moment he catalogs his own body once more. Thinks of all the aches and pains that have settled into his limbs. When he sits up slowly, the skin of his back pulls precariously, like the seams of a shirt being pulled apart. Wincing, he reaches behind himself and feels for the damage he had not wanted to look at the night before; some raised flesh touches the pads of his fingers from what must have been the horse whip. There is one mark that feels scabbed over.

_That bastard hit me hard enough to break my skin. I can’t even…ugh._

Theon’s mind trails away, thinking of how it felt when each blow landed, stealing the air from his lungs. It felt like dying only he survived until the end.

He’s distracted from his thoughts when his phone begins to ring loudly, jolting him. Moving like an old man, Theon slowly reaches for the device and sees a picture of Robb across the front. A groan of dismay begins to unfurl in his throat, but the moment it does, Theon nearly cries out louder. The agony is excruciating and he shuts his eyes in misery.

It feels like his throat…is stuck in his throat. If that is even possible. Furious at himself for letting this happen, Theon pounds a clenched fist into thigh, an outlet for his unvoiced frustration. He can’t even answer the phone so he lets it go to voicemail.

The phone goes silent for only a moment before Robb attempts again and Theon irritably screens the call. He knows what Robb is calling about; practice and then interviews tonight. If Theon could curse and scream, he would. He can’t talk, let alone perform at an interview.

That isn’t even to mention the giant bruise that streaks across his cheekbone, a splash of color across his face. It’s almost like art, but not.

His phone beeps loudly when Robb finally gives up calling and texts. _Hello? Are you lost in the bosom of some luscious woman?_

Oh, doesn’t Theon wish he were…

 _I can’t talk,_ he texts to Robb, glowering at the screen. _I lost my voice._

 _Bullshit! You hungover motherfucker. Don’t lie to me,_ Robb texts back immediately.

_I’m not lying. I literally just don’t feel well._

_Well, what the heck am I supposed to tell the show host for tonight? The Imp really wanted to pick your brain. They are going to be so pissed off at us,_ Robb types.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Theon reflects, running his hands over the dark bruising on his neck. There is a faint outline of the man’s hands there, marking Theon as…something. He’s not sure what yet, but he feels…torn when he looks at those marks. He’s not sure how to feel, he doesn’t even know how he feels about those marks being made by another man.

Wrong, he supposes. He’s ashamed by that fact that he got a hard on being forced to submit against his will. Theon vaguely wonders what Robb would say if he told him that he allowed himself to be beaten up by another man and he nearly got off on it.

Robb would want to commit him to the looney bin. Jon would check him in personally.

He touches the marks again and for a brief, horrible moment he imagines his hands belong to someone else as he wraps them around his neck. A shiver wracks his body and Theon swallows thickly, his throat aching under his hands.

There is something wrong with him and he isn’t sure it matters anymore. No one has ever cared about how Theon lived his life before, why should they question this now?

He texts Robb back something he hasn’t thought of for some time.

_Just tell them I’m writing. I’ve had a breakthrough._

Of sorts.

 

* * *

 

It takes time to leave bed. Theon spends a few moments convincing himself to get up and get dressed, the emptiness of loneliness chaining him to the warm sheets. He’s lived with himself for a few years now; he used to live with the Stark’s.

Eventually, he found living with them to be too hard, especially with his family history. The Stark’s had taken him in after both murders of his brothers, then the death of his mother. That may or may not have been natural…

His sister coped her own way, her own private pain making her closed off to her only remaining brother. She bore the brunt of their father’s expectations and his weight was a heavy burden on her shoulder’s no matter how strong she was. She had little to no time for Theon, not even when he needed her most.

Perhaps it had been too much to expect her to carry her father and Theon. So, when Theon left to go be a part of the Stark’s he figured he would be able to be a part of a family again, warm and safe.

Theon loved the Stark family. He hated them too.

They accepted him into their home, the troublesome Greyjoy boy, always acting out to get some form of attention. Eddard Stark did his best to build some discipline into him, but there is only so much you can do with a broken kid that doesn’t want to be fixed.

He would roam their halls and feel like a ghost, never quite becoming a Stark. He viewed the easy love and affection that the family had, the comradery. They way they took care of each other and comforted each other. All Theon could see was what he didn’t have and what he wanted so desperately for himself.

Theon wanted his family, _wished_ his family had been like this. He didn’t want someone else’s family, he wanted the _Greyjoy_ family.

As far as Theon could tell, the Stark family didn’t take care of Theon because they wanted to take care of him as if he belonged to them, but because they pitied him.

Pity is something Theon can’t stomach, above anything else. Not directed at him.

So, down he spirals, eaten inside by his anger, hurt, and envy. It was a slope that let depression in, some days. The mask he wears is more tiring than he could possibly voice, always trying to look so happy, so fucking grateful for everything the Stark family has done for him.

It fucking kills him inside and some days he’s so tired he just wants it all to end.

He wants someone else to carry him the way his real sister couldn’t.

 

* * *

 

Theon hasn’t sat down to write in some time. He’s been vacant of real emotion, drowning in women and alcohol in his spare time. There has been no inspiration in months, his soul has been numb and empty of passion.

He can’t hum his notes yet, maybe in a few days. However, he can write what he is feeling, what is so visceral in his mind. Theon closes his eyes and hears a voice that makes him think of winter and blood. The lead of his pencil touches his notepad as he considers.

Then he writes and writes. Barely eats, barely drinks. Certainly doesn’t shower or leave the house.

He’s in the zone. This is where he needs to be. This is where he needs to be in order to make the band successful. He will gain the love and adoration of the crowd again. He fucking will.

Days pass. Note books are scattered everywhere, torn up pages littering the floor. Theon’s throat has begun to heal now, allowing him to speak and hum. He’s been living on ibuprofen and water. Pizza too, ordered in. He hasn’t left the apartment once.

Slouching into his lazy boy, Theon takes up his pencil and begins humming notes, stringing them together to make random tunes. He strings them together, imagining where he can take his voice when attaching words to those hummed sounds.

He’s never been happier to hum a song than he is now. Gone is the raspy voice, damaged from his bruised throat. A slight ache is still there, still in the healing process, but it is an improvement. Now, Theon can really work.

Writing…

_Your voice is like a blade down my spine_

_but oh please cut me deeper, harder_

_until there is nothing left of me, only you_

His dreams are haunted at night. Filled with blood and screams, hopelessness and loss of sense of time and space. The man and his voice are there, but he can’t see his face and it drives Theon to the edge of madness.

He wants, oh lord he wants to see him, wants to see those eyes. Who is this person that took him down to the edge of the cliff and let him fall the fuck right off.

Another morning, another day. He decides to shave his face, cuts himself. Lets it bleed. Doesn’t care. He gets blood on his paper. Theon finds it fitting. Smiles.

A week passes and finally someone breaks Theon out of his maddened, tortured artist loop.

“I’m having a party tonight, I’d like you to come over,” Kyra says, her voice hopeful.

Theon hasn’t spoken to her since that night and he knows she’s wondering what’s up. She’s been his eternal booty call and confidant. Or rather, the girl that never stops waiting for him to make that final step forward and make some form of commitment.

She should know he’s never been one for that. All these years, he’s never found a reason to commit to anyone. It’s safer to never put that level of trust in anyone, ever. Betrayal is always around the corner, waiting with bated breath to stab you in the back with a poisoned blade. Theon has had enough of that to last a lifetime.

His own family…the very people who were supposed to love and care for him rejected him. If blood could cast you out, what on earth could other people be capable of? Theon never stayed with a person long enough to find out. Robb and Jon weren’t even blood, but they were closer to him than his own family.

Sex isn’t supposed to be a binding thing. Theon prefers to dine and dash. Emotions and sex…Theon doesn’t want it. He wants to be this elusive dream to all the girls he takes to bed with him, this _thing,_ this piece of flesh they can have, but never know deep down who he is, never touch his soul.

The raw wounds inside aren’t theirs to see.

“You can speak again, I hope?” Kyra presses, her voice flickering nervously.

She’s afraid he doesn’t want to talk to her anymore. She’s afraid that she’s lost him, scared him away after showing him her lifestyle after hours.

Clearing his throat lightly, Theon says, “I can talk just fine, babe. Don’t worry. Who’s going to be at the party?” 

“Then why haven’t you called?” Her voice is soft, like a child’s, saying what she has really been thinking this whole time and ignoring his question.

Theon closes his eyes and holds in his exhale. “I’ve been…writing. Kinda went into cave mode. You know how I get.”

Silence greats him as she absorbs his words.

“I guess your trip to the _Dreadfort_ wasn’t a waste of your time.”

“Nah. Like you said, cathartic. What time did you say your party is?”

“I didn’t say. Don’t be stupid, Theon. You got out lucky that time.”

“Are you telling me I’m not allowed to go back to the club? Is that what you’re telling me? Because that’s what it sounds like.”

Kyra goes quiet again in the face of his anger. She always goes quiet when she’s trying to keep tears out of her voice. “I’m sorry I told you about that fucking place.”

“Kyra. Just drop it. I’m coming over now. I’ve got nothing better to do anyway.”

A sneer enters her voice this time. “Great.”

Theon hangs up the phone furiously, glaring at his closet as he contemplates what to change into. He’s been living like a filthy hermit the past few days, that much is true. He wasn’t lying when he said he had gone into writing mode.

Lost his mind a bit. Fallen off into a pit.

He showers and dresses, leaving his apartment. Tries not to think about where he would rather be going.

He doesn’t succeed.

 

* * *

 

Kyra lives in a decent first floor apartment a few miles away. Theon can hear the music pounding from the street. She wasn’t kidding when she said she was having a party. Cars line every side of the street. When he parks, he glances at himself once in the mirror, making sure his hair is in place and his bitch eating grin is all set.

Ladies love that mother effing grin. He reminds himself that it is Kyra’s party though, her house; she wouldn’t take too kindly to him hitting on another girl in her domain. For tonight, Theon is hers. Kind of. Temporarily.

He enters in the front door and is assaulted by the music and smell of alcohol. He smiles wider. Kyra sees him enter and smiles gently, extracting herself from a few couples sipping wine around her. “You came!”

Enveloping her in a large hug, Theon kisses her neck, laughing when she squirms and giggles. “I said I would, didn’t I? Who is all here?”

“Some of our typical friends from our school days, work, the club, etc.”

A jolt of lightening shoots through Theon’s stomach. “The club?”

Kyra nods vigorously as she takes a large gulp from her beer. “A lot of the servers and girls I work with are here. We spend a lot of time in the trenches together, so it is nice to spend some normal time with each other.”

A sigh softens Theon’s shoulders. For a minute he had wondered…hoped…no. Why would he hope for that anyway? He is such a freak.

He gets himself a whiskey and sits with Kyra on his lap for some time, just being with her as she talks to her guests that come up to them. He kisses her neck and attempts to grope her some, but for the most part she contains him, swatting his hands away at times.

When she gets up to go to the bathroom and mingle more, she looks at him and says, “I’ll see you later tonight, right?”

He nods. Of course he’s getting into bed with her. He certainly doesn’t get to get with anyone else here tonight. Theon finds another drink while she is gone and wanders, aimlessly seeing faces of people he could care less about.

He’s like a ghost, drifting from room to room observing the life and happiness around him. Pretends he is part of it.

“Ah, so you are alive, I see.”

Uh. Not this raging bitch. Theon turns and sees silver and violet. “Hello, Breaker of Balls. Is it a pleasure to see you or-”

She smiles with teeth, mocking. “It is.”

Theon does not want to spend a minute with her, so he turns to walk away when she grabs him firmly by the arm. He glowers at her, noting how different she looks when she isn’t in her leather dominatrix getup with spiked heels.

“Talk to me for a minute,” she says surprisingly. “There are only a few people from the club here anyway. It’s nice to see a familiar face.”

“I didn’t realize we were familiar with each other.”

“We aren’t, but I have seen your naked ass.”

Theon laughs. “You and a lot of other women.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes, but her expression says she would like to. “Either way. I’m glad to see you are okay. Kyra admonished me for not taking good enough care of you at the club on your first night. I let you go astray.”

This again. She thinks still thinks she had any power over him and his actions. “It was for the best. I found what I was looking for anyway.”

A shocked look shapes her face. “You _what_?”

surprised by her reaction, Theon struggles for a minute to think through what he said. What was wrong with what he said? What-

“You want to see him again, don’t you?”

There is a soft flutter in his chest, inexplicable, a lapse of judgement. The sensation is akin to touching an exposed outlet, jarring and painful, yet strangely numbing. Theon blinks. Inhales sharply. She watches his expression change, just the small hint that it does.

An ersatz smile curls her full lips and her head tilts back as she laughs, full throated. “You _do_!” She wipes at her eye casually, as if rubbing away a tear of amusement.  “You’re a fool. He’s going to eat you alive.”

“Who is he?” Theon demands, because he hasn’t been able to ask anyone this question aloud.

In his mind, he has painted a figure in his imagination, a nightmare of a fantasy that smiles like a shark with sharp white fangs, grinning as he looks down a Theon. He imagines the way the man might look at him, how he would make him feel so small and insignificant.

Dany, Breaker of Chains leans forward and gazes at him intently. “Are you going to go back and ask him? Does he haunt your mind?”

If only she knew. Or perhaps she does. Theon doesn’t care.

A man in his late fifties walks into the room and looks at them with his thin lips pursed. Theon gives the guy his best fuck off look, but the man doesn’t falter, his gaze burning into the side of Dany’s face. A strange smirk shapes her lips as she continues to stare at Theon. “Is he very upset? The man who just entered?”

Theon turns to look at her once more. “Uh, yeah. He’s looking at me like he’s dreaming of ripping my dick off for speaking to you. He’s also looking at you like he can’t decide whether to grovel at your feet or lick you c-”

She holds her hand up sharply, cutting Theon off. “Jorah, come over here please.”

The man appears beside them, looking even more irritated. “Mistress. I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.”

It is intriguing how Dany’s brow never shifts, as if frozen. The woman has a legendary poker face. “And you shall wait even longer if you continue to present such ill manners. Say hello to Theon.”

Blue eyes stare Theon down and then drift back to their Mistress. “Hello, Theon.”

“Wow, she has you trained good, doesn’t she?” Theon is vaguely impressed.

This Jorah dude seems ready to kick Theon’s ass into next week when Dany, Breaker of Chains stands up slowly and runs a gentle finger down Jorah’s check. His blue eyes fall upon her face in pain filled adoration. A slimy feeling slides down into Theon’s belly as he looks at the raw emotion on Jorah’s face as he looks at Dany. He can’t decide if he wants someone to look at him like that or if he wants to suffer that much for someone else.

Envy.

That’s what the feeling is, darker and sick, like rotting meat festering in the back of a fridge. You don’t see it coming and sometimes you forget about it, but when you find it all you feel is disgust, sick sick sick sick…

“Jorah, go back to the car and wait for me. I’ll be out shortly. I just want to say my goodbyes,” Dany states gently, running her finger over his lips.

The man looks like he is going to die, being sent from her side. He nods to her and steps away, refusing to look at Theon again. Dany watches him leave with an indescribable look in her violet eyes. “You’re wondering who he is.”

Theon shifts on his feet, tonguing his teeth absently. He feels awkward, like he witnessed an emotion he doesn’t recognize.

“I actually wasn’t.”

“He’s my slave.”

All thought stops for a moment, trailing away with those words as they dance around in Theon’s head. For a moment, he thinks he understands what it means, but then understanding vanishes again. “Ah…he’s your _what_? And how?”

_A slave?_

“To put it shortly, he’s mine. His trust in me runs so deep that he has given himself to me entirely. In turn, I take care of him, provide boundaries and care,” she says airily.

Theon shakes his head. He doesn’t like the way that word makes him feel inside. It makes his hand unconsciously touch his throat, feeling for a phantom hand, for imagined bruising.

“Why would he choose to do such a thing?” Theon snarks, putting on fake bravado.

Dany squints at him. “You don’t trust anyone, I can see that. I knew that the first night I met you. Perhaps you need a strong hand that you know won’t let you fall. Then you will understand.”

She gets up to leave and join her…slave. Her violet eyes look Theon up and down as she says in parting, “I just hope you haven’t found that hand in the wrong person.”

He sits and thinks for a few quiet minutes after she is gone. Thinking. Existing. People are simply a blur around him, alive and laughing.

Theon gets up and leaves, forgets Kyra.

He has other places he needs to be.

Things he needs to know.

He drives like a madman with purpose even though he shouldn’t be. He hasn’t drank that much, but still he has no business being on the road, driving to the downtown. He finds himself parking in parking lot for the club, the _Dreadfort_ and wonders how he got there.

Fuck. _Why_ is he doing this to himself?

Theon pays at the door and smashes into the dark, growling club. It is alive, but alive with suffering and agony. He lives for it, because it looks like how he feels inside. It’s nearly midnight, but still there are people in the cages, on the platforms. Performing. Committing to their scenes. This place comes alive in the dark.

Sliding through the dance floor like a snake, letting people brush up against him, Theon makes a bee-line for the stairs that will lead him downward. Down to the rusty red door. As he tears down the stone stairs he catches sight of the room at the end of the hall, only this time there are no minions standing guard and the room door is wide open.

He enters the room like a hot revolver, growling, “Where are you, asshole?”

The lights are on in the room, giving Theon a glimpse of the rest of the area. The walls are painted a dark red, like wine. Multiple racks adorn the walls, various instruments of torture hanging there. Chains hang from a hook descending from the ceiling, a high ceiling that makes the room airier rather than claustrophobic. In one corner, an iron wheel stands, with a cushion and straps in the center for a human torso. Shackles sit on the four edges of the wheel. It reminds Theon of a spider web and it horrifies him.

The room is much larger than Theon expected, yet it is empty of the person he is searching for.

The room is simply empty and all of the air in Theon’s lungs escape in a whoosh.

“Lost again?”

All of the hair on Theon’s neck rises, but before he can turn to face the door behind him, a strong arm wraps around his neck from behind and holds him in a bruising headlock. Hot breath bathes his neck. “I wasn’t aware our first and last engagement was going to result in you seeking me out again. Unfortunate.”

“Tough luck, you fuck. I’m back,” Theon hisses out, fingers grasping at the arm around him.

The arm around his neck tightens and a hip juts under Theon’s rear as the man shifts backwards, lifting Theon’s feet off the ground momentarily. A jarring moment as Theon’s feet touch the ground once more after struggling for air and leverage.

“I know; I saw you barrel through the dance floor like a bull with his balls tied,” the man sneers cruelly.

For a moment Theon is disturbed; this room was supposed to be where this man exists. He can’t possibly exist outside of the room. That. Isn’t. Right.

The asshole continues his lecture, seeing as Theon is slightly speechless. “I already told you; I have no interest in gaining a male client. What part of what I did last time was an invitation?”

Theon swallows the saliva building up in his mouth with some difficulty. Thinks of how the fear and loss of control made him feel. The hand on his throat with all of the power, leaving Theon with nothing.

“ _All of it_ ,” he breathes out, nearly a whisper.

First comes the warmth of someone else’s breath on his earlobe, then the heated sensation that someone else’s lips are close to touching the curve of his ear. “What was that? I can’t hear you.”

The voice is cold, sharp.

Theon flushes in shame as he shudders in the bruising hold. He feels so small, like he could be crushed out like a firefly. Bright and alive one moment and then gone, all for the pleasure of someone else.

Suffering. The art of suffering.

“All of it,” Theon says louder, his voice thick.

The firm body pressed against his back stiffens. Then the arm tightens around Theon’s neck in what could only be annoyance. “You are an idiot if I’ve ever seen one. You have no clue what you want.”

Theon pushes backwards hard, moving the man back a step with his body. The man makes a barely audible sound of surprise at this action, this tiny act of defiance. Theon’s heart swells. “It’s true; I don’t know what I want. Not yet. I might never know.”

“I’m not going to fuck you. I already told you, I have no interest in male subs,” the voice sneers harshly.

“And I don’t want you to,” Theon snaps. “I just…I don’t know. Just…give me a chance. We don’t need that level of intimacy to get this done. We don’t need any fucking intimacy or sex-”

“I don’t need it,” the man interrupts darkly as his free hand slips under Theon’s shirt and above his crotch, causing Theon’s stomach to twitch madly. “But you can’t separate the two. Pain and sex. I’ve seen the whole of you in one night. I’m not impressed.”

Fearing that the man is truly going to throw him out on his ass, Theon blurts out what he really doesn’t want to say aloud. “I want to become nothing again. I want it all to go away. You made me disappear.”

The man loosens his grip slightly. “Did that hurt?”

For a moment Theon’s reality spins. “What?”

“Telling the truth. I hear it hurts.”

Before Theon can think of an answer, he is being marched forward, deeper into the room. His heart soars ridiculously. Does this mean…?

“I’m going to let you go. You will _not_ turn around.”

Theon nods enthusiastically. He can do that, despite the fact that he would love nothing more than to turn and see who this man is whose voice alone haunts his best nightmares. A piece of cloth is put into one of his hands as the warmth behind him disappears, along with the arm around his neck. For a brief moment, there is silence as Theon considers throwing it all away just to look behind his shoulder.

 _Gah_. He wants to turn around so bad, but he can’t afford to fail this test.

“Put the blindfold on. Now,” his voice, ever so detached of emotion.

Theon does as he is commanded, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. He can imagine cold eyes boring into his spine as he does as he is told like a good boy. When his eyes are covered by the blindfold, warm hands enclose his wrists and his is pulled into another direction.

Theon follows where he is led. What else can he do?

Again, they pause, standing somewhere in the room, Theon no longer knows where.

“Understand, if you try to touch me when I don’t ask for it, I will throw you out in the cold. If you sit here trying to turn this into something it's not, I will flay you alive. I am not your friend. I am not your lover. Understand?” The voice is a lazy drawl now, so unexpectedly smooth that Theon almost doesn’t realize that the man is setting boundaries for their…arrangement.

It’s not a relationship. It’s not.

“I get it,” Theon snaps. “I already told you, I don’t swing your fucking way.”

Cold shackles snap into place around his wrists in place of warm hands. “Good,” the man says in a ridiculously cheery voice.

Although he can’t see him, Theon knows the man has stepped away from him and now he is in chains. There comes a strange noise and Theon gets the impression that it is a crank or pulley. The chains that are shackled to his wrists begin to shorten and pull him upwards, his hands rising against his will.

The man is going to hang him from his wrists. The sound of the crank continues to grind throughout the room until Theon can barely touch his toes to the ground. All of the weight of his body is being held in his shoulders and wrists, causing an exquisite ache.

Theon breathes in deeply, trying to channel the pain that he knows is coming. The ache will soon change into something worse, he knows that much.

“Do you trust me?”

What a stupid question. How is he expecting Theon to answer? No? Yes? The answer is pretty much no but…

“I…ah…ye-”

“You shouldn’t.” Flat. Cold and ruthless.

The door squeals shuts and all goes silent aside from the screaming in Theon’s head.

His shoulders ache and soon the burn begins.

There is a sensation, the one where Theon feels like crying out for help, to be unchained. Then he realizes, no one can hear him and no one knows he is in here. Only the man.

Only he can set Theon free.

And Theon can’t make him do a damn thing.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments keep me fueled!!


	3. A Burn You Can't Deny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: All characters belong to George R. R. Martin.

Time becomes an endless void of nothingness and wailing agony.

Theon has never been more aware of his own body than he is now. Every bead of sweat that glides down his spinal column is like a trickle of ice against his flesh. He feels the way his muscles strain, screaming in the face of the force levied against them.

His wrists had been the first to crumble under the steel grip of the shackles that held them mercilessly. Theon had put all his effort into trying to keep his weight off of his wrists, tried to balance on the tip of his sneakers, but even then, his toes had begun to burn.

Eventually, he let out a cry of frustration that echoed back at him, bouncing off the walls. He couldn’t imagine a better nightmare, being blindfolded in a chamber filled with his own screams. It felt like justice for all the miserable things he had done in his life up until this point.

The way he had treated the Stark’s when they took him in, his rejection of their kindness. The time he stole Ned Stark’s solemn black Escalade and crashed it, piss drunk, betraying their unfailing trust. His view of their charity as pity, throwing it back in their face when he moved out and squandered the chance to take an office job through their many connections. The way he repeatedly pushed Kyra away, treated her like she meant nothing to him. How he never reacted when he saw her face fall every time he turned away from her affectionate gaze.

How he was never good enough for his father. The eternal disappointment.

Theon _deserves_ this _._

He’s never known something so true in his life. He feels it in his bones, in his joints as they crack and scream under the pressure pulling them in separate directions.

His wrists crack loudly when he finally sags against them, trying to alleviate the agony in his toes. Theon vaguely realizes that he can’t feel his fingers, they’ve already gone numb, circulation poor in what must be medieval manacles around his wrists.

He calls out. Asks for help, _no_ , begs for help. Time slips past him and he has to piss, the burn in his bladder becoming unbearable. For a brief moment, he wonders if his bladder may actually explode. He _can’t_ piss himself, his pride is too great.

There would be no greater humiliation than to be caught with urine staining his jeans, hanging here like a strung-up deer, waiting to be skinned.

Though it appears that this side of Theon enjoys humiliation, he knows he isn’t far gone enough to abandon his sense of self-importance. He takes too much pride in himself, his appearance, the way women lust after him. Pain wracks his bladder again, sharp and stinging, but he won’t give up holding on.

He won’t let his tormentor see him that way. He won’t open up the door for that sort of debasement.

Not yet, anyway.

_Not ever,_ Theon corrects himself furiously. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He tells himself that this isn’t who he is, but deep down he knows that there is something twisted, something broken deep within.

It is unknown how many hours or minutes have passed. Theon can’t see a thing outside of the dark cloth over his eyes and he wouldn’t be able to know anyway; the chamber is deep underground.

_Where no one can hear you scream,_ he thinks darkly with an edge of excitement.

Oh, what a sick bastard he must be, getting excited over the idea that perhaps no one will ever find him again. Perhaps he will be left to become a corpse, rotting and vile, the way his heart is.

Exhaustion is in his peripheral, waiting in the wings. Theon is sure he would have passed out already, had he not been strung up in agony. It could be late morning by this time, but he hasn’t the foggiest idea. The world has moved on without him.

Which is perfectly fine, to be frank. He has nothing waiting for him in his empty, trash apartment. No special job outside of the band, which is at risk of losing ratings over his recent failings. No one he loves.

He may as well be a corpse already, one that simply walks, talks, and fucks like a human.

When the pain in his shoulders becomes unbearable, he grits his teeth, gasping for air. He can feel every individual muscle twitching madly, begging for some sort of release. Some escape from the pain. Theon knows there isn’t any escape, not here.

He gives up listening intently for the man to come back; he can barely focus on anything aside from the state of his body and his own pitiful thoughts, spiraling with depressive mania.

_You deserve this. You deserve everything_ he _gives you. Everything he does to you. You let your body become his playground._

Theon can’t even argue with his own thoughts. It’s all true.

Time and silence spin around him endlessly. Eventually, and finally, he disappears into the agony and he knows no more thought.

It’s heaven.

* * *

 

The sound of a door scraping open loudly jolts Theon into wakefulness. He had been completely unaware that he even passed out. When had that happened? The strange mix of fire and numbness that has overtaken his body makes him sob embarrassingly, the sound coming from his chest without his consent.

_He’s back. Oh, thank fuck he came back for me._ Theon’s relief is only rivaled by his screaming joints begging for death.

His bladder is a completely different story and he tries to not think of it. He’s held on valiantly and he isn’t quite sure that he hasn’t damaged himself by holding out this stubbornly.

Strangely, the only sound since the door opening is still only Theon’s panting. His heart is pounding in his throat and in his skull, his whole body throbbing along with it. For a horrible moment, Theon wonders if the door is going to shut again, leaving him in the dark again for an unknown amount of time.

“Who are you?”

Theon nearly dies right then and there. He doesn’t recognize the voice, it isn’t the voice he’s been replaying in his mind for the past few hours. Some stranger is looking at him hanging here like a slab of beef and he isn’t sure he will ever live this down.

Fuck, he hopes he isn’t recognized. What a field day the press would have with that. Theon Greyjoy, hanging from the ceiling in a goddamn sex dungeon owned by Roose Bolton. What a laugh.

Theon licks his dehydrated lips, debating on how to answer when he hears a new set of footsteps approaching.

The same dry voice sounds out again, this time directed to someone other than Theon. “What is this poor unfortunate soul doing in here?”

A sigh. “This is a…uh…client.”

Theon heart races madly at the sound of that voice, sharp and icy. He knows that voice. His body sags visibly with embarrassing relief.

The flat voice is that of an older man. “A client? I had no idea you were taking on males now.”

“I’m not. This is a special case.”

The older man hums skeptically, as if Theon is not even there. “Special indeed. This is an unwelcome surprise. You know what we use this room for during the hours the club is closed.”

“I’m aware,” Theon’s overlord snaps.

“We can’t leave the…package…outside in the car for long. It will be noticed. Even in the back alley.”

“I realize that. Let me clear the room.”

A pause and shift of feet. “Be quick about it. You have ten minutes to finish up…whatever it is you are doing down here.”

“Of course, Father.”

“Oh, and Ramsay? Be careful with this. We don’t want any accidents.” The sound of receding footsteps echoes loudly until they disappear, leaving Theon alone with the dungeon master.

It takes a few moments for Theon’s mind to process what he has just heard. _Ramsay? As in Ramsay_ Fucking _Bolton?_ A chill crawls down his aching spine, because he’s heard stories of Roose Bolton’s legitimized bastard.

_Everyone_ has heard about Ramsay Bolton. You would have had to be living under a rock to not hear about him.

Just like everyone has heard the whispered rumors about Roose Bolton’s other…engagements. His legal work included owning and running nightclubs and casinos. His other work though…well. It was said that he worked as ‘intelligence’ for the Lannister family, helping with their political scheming.

When people that displeased the Lannister’s disappeared, one could only make assumptions. Theon really didn’t want to dwell on those assumptions, being chained up by the Bastard of Bolton himself. Or so it seemed.

There was a reason, after all, that Ned Stark had cut ties with the Bolton’s years ago.

“So. Still here are we?”

_What kind of asinine question is that?_ “Where would I go?” Theon asks instead, the new information of the possible identity of his tormentor still worrying him.

It would probably be best to not mouth off quite yet, still tied up and all.

A strange chuckle echoes close to Theon’s body. “Well, a real man would have tried to escape. But. You’re just a bit less of a man aren’t you. Weak. Pathetic. _Desperate_.”

Theon rages silently, biting his tongue to keep from retorting violently.

A hand suddenly presses on his bladder and Theon screams incoherently at the pressure. It feels like his entire insides are ready to combust. The man tsks with a hint of surprise. “Perhaps you are stronger than I thought. You held it all this time? I figured you would have let go.”

Gasping, sweat dripping into his mouth, Theon finally bares his teeth. “What sort of animal do you take me for?”

Ramsay doesn’t answer him, studiously ignoring his anger. The hand returns to Theon abdomen and he wants to scream and beg to not be touched. His body can’t take anymore.

He refrains, knowing that if he tells Ramsay he can’t, the man _will_.

“Well,” Ramsay states sardonically, “What are you waiting for? Go ahead. You have my permission.”

Theon’s body jolts, the chains rattling above him. He feels the blood rush to his cheeks and he turns his face into his shoulder, as if he can hide. He has no idea where the other man is, but all he knows is he’s too ashamed to have him looking at him. It’s too much, too personal, too humiliating.

Another man is telling him that he has his permission to piss his trousers. In front of him. While he watches. It’s too horrible to fathom.

The hand presses again and Theon barely holds back, though he does scream hoarsely. He never though he would be so aware of his own bladder.

He sags in relief as the other man retracts his hand. “I suppose we can save that game for another day. Clearly, you’re not ready. I don’t have time to play today and fix your manners. Lucky you.”

Inexplicably, a tear escapes one of Theon’s eyes. He’s so glad it gets absorbed by the blindfold, so glad the other man didn’t see that moment of weakness. He’s suffered so much for him already, he needs a reprieve.

A hand grips his chin and rolls his head this way and that way gently. Examining and controlling, looking at a prized animal for injury. “You’ve been a good boy. I like that.”

A noise that is almost a groan tears out of Theon’s mouth as that sharp, sarcastic voice trails over his body. He would have killed to hear similar words from his father’s mouth and he feels sick just thinking about it.

This time the hand sneaks under his shirt and trails down his naked spine, hard against every bone. Theon vaguely realizes that the man is wearing tight latex gloves now, separating him from Theon’s flesh. Impersonal.

Distant.

_Just what is the 'package' upstairs?_ Theon isn't sure he wants to know. He's afraid of what the answer might be.

“Playtime is over, I’m afraid. Time for you to go home and do your moping there.”

Ramsay stretches up, his body brushing against Theon’s as he unlocks the manacles. Theon falls to the ground with a cry, ridiculously wanting to curl up into a ball and sob. He’s free, he’s been set loose from his hell.

He’s been given a taste of misery far greater than what he lives every day.  
  
For a minute, Theon doesn’t move, unsure of what to do. Does he remove the blindfold? Does he just get up and feel his way out? Does he look at Ramsay or no? What-

“Stop thinking so hard. It doesn’t suit you.” The latex encased hand drifts to the back of his neck and grips him firmly. “I’ll walk you upstairs and let you out the front.”

The hand hauls Theon up by the back of his shirt roughly, briefly choking him with the neck of the fabric. Theon’s so weak he can barely stand, all of his bones howling at this new torture. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“You will if I tell you to,” is the snide reply.

It books no room for complaint.

They stumble clumsily out of the chamber, Theon nearly tripping over his feet a few times despite the firm hands on him. He puts his hands out wildly, trying to get a sense of where they are, but Ramsay snorts with disdain. “You look like a blind hooker on acid. Put your hands down. I’m in control.”

Feeling like a fool, Theon drops his arms back to their normal places, instead choosing to rub his sore, swollen wrists.

As Ramsay tells him they are going up the stairs, Theon asks, “Are my wrists as bad as they feel?”

A dark chuckle. “Yes. You will need to ice them and take some anti-inflammatory pills. Then move to warm pads to circulate better blood in. Long sleeve shirts probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“What help is that?”

The hands guiding his body tighten, causing Theon to flinch. He’s ashamed at how obviously he reacts to the other man, his fear so strong the air is thick with it.

A warm breath bathes his ear. “It keeps them hidden. That’s what you’re worried about, after all, isn’t it? Worried what everyone else will think of you? All bruised and battered, someone's pathetic toy?”

The truth is like a knife in Theon’s side. He hates how this man can see every insecurity. “You don’t know anything.”

“You’re an open book. An easy one too,” Ramsay’s voice sneers.

Teeth. Sharp teeth are all Theon imagines when he hears that voice. They walk onto the main floor and Theon feels the warm light of day touch his skin like a kind embrace.

A door opens and Theon is pushed forward like a small child.

“You can take the blindfold off in three minutes. Then go home. Don’t look back.”

Theon’s heart seizes in his chest. What do those words mean? Is he saying he can’t come back? Did he not do a good job like he said? “What did I do wrong?”

His voice is weak and the sound of it sickens him. The fear, the agony. It’s too addicting to let go. Knowing who this man is now…or his reputation at least…it’s intoxicating. It’s like being caged with a wolf and all Theon wants is to be in the cage again.

A hand carts through his hair absently. Theon doesn’t know if he feels disgusted or intrigued. Perhaps a mix of both. “If you insist on coming back, wait three days. I’m busy otherwise.”

There is a moment of silence as Theon waits for permission to start counting down the minutes, but then Ramsay continues. “Don’t barge into that chamber again. When I ask for you, you come. Not the other way around. It won’t be like this again. If you come back, you're agreeing to this and what I do. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Despite the ache in his body, Theon can’t describe the thrill he feels knowing he is allowed to return. Ramsay had called him a client. That had to mean he is allowed to continue coming back for more.

Ramsay pats him sharply on the back, causing Theon to jerk away in pain, his shoulders still singing with agony. “Good boy. Now start counting down those three minutes and get out of here. And for fuck’s sake, use the bathroom at the local gas station before you kill yourself. Idiot.”

The door slams behind Theon with finality. He counts slowly, as slowly as he can. He tries to not think about people looking at him standing in front of the closed nightclub with a blindfold on. Though, if anyone knows what the _Dreadfort_ is about they probably would just shrug and assume he’s another kinky shithead.

Theon isn’t wired right. His body mixes up pleasure, fear, and pain until they are all rolled into one.

He’s never been more disgusted in himself.

_Father would never look at me again, if he knew what I was._

At three minutes exactly, he rips off the cursed blindfold and begins running to his car, ignoring the stares he gets. As he drives to the local gas station like a madman to take a piss, he pulls his phone out from under his seat and winces when he sees the amount of messages he has.

A few from Robb, some from Jon. Also few booty calls with nameless faces and titty pics that he will have to...enjoy later.

Then he gets to the Kyra texts and feels his heart sink horribly.

_Where did you go last night? You said you would stay with me._

Theon sighs; he can almost hear the hurt in her voice.

He’s always been a selfish prick. It’s not her fault her feelings are always collateral.

He's too busy wallowing in his own disgusting emotions, wanting to kneel before someone that everyone knows to be a horrible sadist.

Theon nearly doesn't care.

Nearly.

After he races into the local gas station and relieves himself with the loudest groan ever, Theon comes to the realization that he still has no idea what the Dungeon Master looks like.

_But that voice, if I heard it in a crowded room, I'd know it was him._

This fact doesn't stop Theon from wanting to know Ramsay Bolton's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos give me life!!!


	4. Poison in Your Veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of the Characters. They all belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
>  
> 
> Ps. Holy cow, this chapter is long :)

 

“You’ve been mastering this disappearing act lately, man. Enough is enough; we are coming over.” Robb’s voice books no room for disagreement.

Robb is always used to getting what he wants anyways, the fortunate prick. Theon sighs as he hangs up the phone, glancing around his apartment. It’s a mess, per the usual. He’s had no energy to even care about the state of his place, no desire to even do anything about it.

His wrists are still bruised, but he’s taken painkillers for that. It sort of helped with his shoulders. The ache, the reminder is still there for Theon to dwell on.

And dwell on what happened, he does. Thinks about it often. More often than he should. It has been a few days since the incident at the _Dreadfort_ , but Theon still dreams about it as much as he can. He likes to be wrapped up in the sensation of loss and powerlessness. He likes where it puts his mind, how he can think that all that has happened to him in his life was out of his control.

It was in someone else’s control, someone else was to blame. Theon is nothing and never was anything.

“Fuck it,” he says aloud as he stares at the hurricane mess of notebooks and booze bottles. “They are going to have to deal with the mess, aren’t they?”  
  


* * *

 

When Robb and Jon arrive, the two hand Theon a burger from a local fast food joint. “We figured you would be hungry, knowing how poorly you take care of yourself when you disappear into your hole of misery,” Jon says, dark eyes hidden behind his white sunglasses as usual.

Theon stuffs his face gladly, talking around the bun, “I….fdg…do not…mmhm…have a hole of misery. Prick.”

Robb stares into the main room and nods his head approvingly at the mess. “Mother would have had a heart attack if you did this at our home.”

“Wrong,” Jon says as he grabs a beer from Theon’s fridge without asking. Rude. “Mother would have had it all thrown in a dumpster. Then she would set fire to it. Herself. Personally. Very personally.”

“Your mom hates me.”

Robb smiles and takes up residence in Theon’s lazy boy. “Truer words never spoken.”

Jon looks dubiously down at the scattered notebooks and torn sheets, littered with coffee stains. He gingerly examines a few of the pages and Theon scowls over at him. “Oi! Leave my junk alone! That’s private, that is.”

The dark-haired man takes a notebook and walks in the opposite direction of Theon, quoting aloud in a dramatic voice while sipping his ill-gained beer, “…the ache in my bones is a symphony, the ache of your nails under my skin, a pain so real that I’m left with nothing and I like it that way-”

“Give it here I said!”

Theon grapples with Jon, jumping onto his back as he fruitlessly attempts to regain his lyrics.

Chuckling, Jon topples backwards, knocking Theon onto his couch unceremoniously. The beer begins to foam and spill, so Robb grabs it from Jon’s distracted fingers. He shakes his head at them, one eyebrow raised with the air of being unimpressed. “You two are unbelievable. Still squabbling like a pair of school girls.”

“We live to please,” Jon says, smiling into the pages as he continues to read them against Theon’s will.

Grabbing Jon’s hand, Theon growls, “I’ll show you schoolgirl, you big, miserable prat.”

They fall off of the couch and crash to the floor with a thud. Theon bites down a cry of pain, his wrists screaming for him to stop abusing them. Luckily, he wore long sleeves today. It just wouldn’t do for Robb and Jon to see the marks.

Jon wiggles like a worm and throws his hips against Theon hard, jolting him into the coffee table. When Theon’s shoulder hits the wood, he mentally calls it quits because the pain has him seeing stars in his vision. Jon crawls away with the papers, victorious.

“Seriously, though. Who are you fucking? These lyrics are something else. I can’t wait to see the instrumentals.”

Theon rubs his shoulder with a flush of embarrassment, feeling the burn in his muscles. A reminder of his suffering at the hand of another. “The question is always ‘who am I not fucking’.”

Jon turns his head to give Theon a bland look. “Me.”

Raising both his eyebrows, Theon speculates. “I can’t tell if you are posing that as a bad thing or a good thing.”

“It’s probably a good thing. I hear you aren’t too memorable.”

“Bull. Shit.”

Robb sits down next to Jon and looks at the lyrics. “Man, you are right on with this. I like where you are going with this stuff. How many of these have you written?”

Theon shrugs, trying to recall how much he’s written, all the dark dreams and fantasies of pain and agony haunting his nights. He’s been writing like a machine almost as much as he’s been suffering. “Maybe ten? Twelve, even.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? This is awesome, Theon. Do you have the music ready?”

“I’ve started it.”

Jon puts his sunglasses up on his head. “We have a show this Saturday night. Do you think we could do one of these? We have time to practice if you have the instrumentals done. Think of the bitches, Theon. They will die hearing you sing this crap. Literally die, thinking it’s all about them.”

Both brothers are staring at Theon expectantly, so he can do nothing other than clap his hands together and say, “Well, crap. Let’s do it. For the bitches.”

“I’m calling Gendry,” Jon says, getting up and stalking towards the door. “Meet you at the car. Let’s hit the studio for a bit.”

 _Fucking Gendry,_ Theon thinks. He still hasn’t forgiven that oaf for letting him go home with the toll bridge troll.

With Jon gone, Robb turns to Theon and gives him a searching look. “In all seriousness though, are you okay? You haven’t been so out of touch this much in a long time. Not since…well you know. All that stuff from before.”

Theon cringes, locking his emotions away and imagines them being thrown into the sea. “I’m fine. Just been going through some stuff. Nothing serious.”

Robb frowns, his blue eyes worried. “It’s not drugs again is it? Not heroin or-”

Okay. That crosses the line. “ _Shit_! No, Robb. It isn’t heroin again. It isn’t anything like that.”

The other man doesn’t look convinced. “Theon, I’ve known you almost my whole life. You’ve always been good at finding ways to break yourself down. I don’t know why, but that’s what you do. If it isn’t in a needle, it’s another way. Are you sure you don’t need help? I don’t want to be in the hospital with you again, holding your cold fucking hand. You hear me?”

Theon tries to not think of that time. Tries to think of ways to tell Robb how he’s found someone who can make him so small, so much less than he even thought he could be. How thrilling it is. How awful it is. How he hates it.

But he shakes his head instead. He’s not going to say anything about it.

They all pile into Jon’s blue Mustang, driving in almost silence to the studio until Robb comments on one of the news articles that comes up on his phone. “Ugh. Did you guys hear about that whole thing with the Lannister’s? I guess old daddy Tywin is trying to get his daughter the Mayor position.”

Jon snorts. “Lions my ass. They are snakes, that family has always been bad news. That woman with any sort of power would be hellish.”

Vaguely curious, because politics never interested Theon, he asks, “Why did Ned stop supporting them? What happened two years ago?”

Jon looks at him from the rear-view mirror. “Cersei had Robert fucking wacked, that’s why. What sort of sick bitch has her husband killed? Dad was so close with him too. They always attended charity gala’s together in the past.”

“Who did it? The wacking?”

Robb grunted, scanning the article furiously. “Who knows, but could be the same people that…took Dad. That meeting he had with Cersei, some time after Robert’s funeral…he never had a good feeling after that. Wicked witch must have used her daddy’s connections.”

Jon coughed loudly and it sounded suspiciously like Roose Bolton.

Heart thudding against his chest, Theon groaned loud enough to annoy all occupants of the car. “Enough! This politic talk is giving me constipation. You want to make it to the studio, don’t you?”

*****

When Kyra comes over that night, Theon can tell she is hot to trot and ready to go. There’s something in her eyes, hungry and demanding and he knows he is on the menu. That’s alright, he doesn’t mind being consumed, finding a hole to disappear in.

He doesn’t even get a chance to speak to her, to bring up how he ditched her that one night to go to the _Dreadfort_. How he let himself get strung up and hung in Bolton’s fucking twisted dungeon instead of staying at her party safe with her.

Kyra throws herself at him, her mouth locked on his instantly. Theon isn’t about to complain; this about sums up their relationship for years. The way he does her wrong; the way she pretends he doesn’t.

It’s not right, Theon knows well enough. But…she seems fine with it for now. She can always walk out the front door. He isn’t going to stop her. He’s never wanted anyone to stay. Not with him.

Theon doesn’t even like himself, why should anyone else?

They find themselves in bed not long after, which suits Theon just fine. Less talking. Less fighting. He doesn’t have to explain himself for all his wrong doings, doesn’t have to get guilt-tripped for the one hundredth time.

She works her hips little circles, groaning as she works him. Theon’s eyes flutter as he lets himself go to the sensation of her wrapped around his body, the sounds she makes for him, saying his name. It’s as close to feeling like a king as he ever gets.

Kyra gazes down at him and her red lips drop open as she cries out softly, her warm channel squeezing Theon tightly, rippling up and down his shaft. He thrusts upwards against her, urging her through her first orgasm and trying to build his further.

He’s close, he’s at that edge, watching her body riding him, but something is missing. He’s missing a piece of this puzzle and he can’t figure it out until he focuses on her hands on his chest. He grips both of her wrists and slowly pulls her hands up to his neck.

“Theon?” She asks with an air of hazy confusion.

He’s afraid to say it for some reason. The words stick in his throat and he realizes that he’s ashamed of what he wants. What he needs. _Just fucking say it, tell her what you need,_ he reasons with himself heatedly.

“Choke me. I want you to choke me.” He almost dies saying it aloud. Almost but not quite.

Kyra freezes her movements, her hands twitching on his skin. “What did you say?”

Thrusting up into her again, watching the way she bites her lips at his actions, Theon whispers, “You heard me.”

Despite his insistence, Kyra does not do as he asks. He’s not going to beg her. Fuck, he’s not going to beg despite his raging boner desperate for release.

“I don’t like bringing work home with me.”

Letting out a frustrated growl, Theon sits up onto his hands, jaw clenched. “You choke other men for money, but you won’t put your hands on me? Is this a joke? ‘Cuz I’m not getting it, Kyra.”

Her eyes are bright in the dark as her fingers gently slide away from his skin. Theon feels the loss keenly, warmth evaporating from his flesh in a breath of winter. Kyra looks down at him, the moonlight kissing her face, twisted with sadness. “It’s a job, Theon. It’s for money. You think I enjoy it?”

Theon scoffs in disbelief. “How am I supposed to know?”

“I don’t! I hate it and I feel nothing for those men. Not like how I feel about you.”

The organ located in his chest does a strange flip at her words, a weak flip, but one none the less. At the same time though, his stomach sinks at her words sickly, because he can’t commit to those same feelings. He’s too broken inside, too lost at sea.

Before he can even provide a semblance of a response, Kyra lets out a ragged gasp and moves off of him to sit on the side of the bed. Theon’s erection has long since flagged.

“What on earth is wrong now?” He can’t keep up with where she is going with this conversation. All he wanted was to be choked and oh look at how that turned out.

Great job, Theon. Can’t fucking do a thing right. Can’t even get his best booty call to finish having sex with him because of mother effing emotions.

Fuck. Emotions.

With her shoulders shaking with sobs, Krya blurts out, “I’ve gone and ruined you.”

Theon has never been a sensitive man, at least not to the feelings of others. He bursts out with laughter at her words, which only makes her cry harder. _She thinks she’s ruined me? Oh boy, she’s got another thing coming if that is what she thinks. I’ve been in pieces long before she ever found me,_ Theon thinks.

“You asshole! What is so funny,” Kyra snaps, striking out at him amidst his chuckles.

Mascara is running down her cheeks and it only makes him laugh harder.

He doesn’t think he’s ever failed at sex this bad before.

“You…ah…haha…you haven’t done anything wrong. There is nothing you could possibly do to ruin me. I’m already a fucking mess.”

Scowling, Kyra gets up with furious motions and begins to drag her clothes on hastily. “I introduced you to the _Dreadfort_. I should have never done that. I thought it would help you come to terms with all that you keep buried inside, but instead it’s allowed you to wallow in your own filth!”

Theon’s mouth drops open slightly at her words. _Ouch._

“Really,” he says caustically as she storms from the room in a huff. “Are we really having a fight again? Can’t we just get along once?”

He follows her from the room, completely naked and without shame. Kyra doesn’t turn to look at him as she reaches his door, a scowl twisting her red lips. “I don’t like who you are turning into. It’s not you.”

As she flings open the door and walks out, Theon hollers out into the hall, not caring who hears or sees him. Anyone who sees his cock should feel privileged anyway. “Well, this is me. Welcome to the big picture little girl. This is who I have always been and you’re only seeing it now.”

Kyra reaches the elevator and steps inside, only then turning to look at him at the ding of the bell. She raises her hand and flips him the bird, which is the last thing Theon sees of her as the elevator doors close.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Theon heads back into his apartment, finding some whiskey to down. It he can’t have sex, he may as well have it with himself and a bottle of jack.

There are worse things after all.

She’ll be back. Eventually. She always comes back.

Theon isn’t going anywhere.  
  


* * *

__  
  


* * *

 

Thursday night, Theon finds himself staring into his mirror, the light above the sink crackling and flickering. It makes him look like a monster, even to himself.

He is a monster. Perhaps that’s the truth and what everyone sees in the light of day is a lie.

He’s got an itch that needs a scratch and he has time before Saturday. He knows Friday night can’t possibly happen because he needs time to get better before the show. He can’t risk another flopped night. He needs the crowd’s approval and love, he needs it in the magazines and on tv. He needs the validation that says he isn’t nothing.

He considers texting Kyra to see if she is at work, but decides against it. If she is still mad, it is better that she texts him first anyway.

Theon puts on his favorite statement jeans and sprays cologne on, does his hair nice. He can go to the _Dreadfort_ and not get his ass beat. He’s sure of it. He can just go and hang out with the people on the dance floor and at the bar. It is a fucking bar isn’t it? He can go and just drink himself into oblivion, the good old-fashioned way. He won't go near the basement dungeon or the man that haunts his darkest nightmares.

He won't, but he could be lying.

Time flashes by as he finds himself at the club, paying the decently hefty admission fee. The club rages as he descends down the entry stairs, seeing the ominous green and blue colors dancing across the dimly lit club.

The bass is the heartbeat of the dancefloor and it bangs through Theon’s body. He smiles at the sensation, trying to only focus on the bar side of the club and not the side full of platforms with people publicly performing acts of domination and submission.

He doesn’t want to be tempted. Not tonight. Tonight he is just here to drink, fuck.

He wonders where Kyra is, because he hasn’t seen her since their fight two nights past. Or heard from her. It was unusual, even for her. Usually she forgave him fast, ready to be with him all over again. Theon didn’t get it, any of it, but he wasn’t about to ask questions.

He isn’t so prone to forgiveness after all, he prefers carrying grudges around like baggage.

Winking at a few girls lasciviously, Theon makes his way to an empty seat at the long, winding bar that dominated the far side of the club. He barely gets the goth bartender to pay attention to him, but when he does, he orders a few whiskeys, downing the first fast to get a buzz and savoring the second.

A few girls come by and ask him if he wants to play, one even asks him to come spank her up on stage. He’s so shocked he doesn’t even know what to say aside from that it wasn’t really his thing to hit girls.

“Oh,” she says, “You prefer spanking men then?”

Choking on his whiskey, Theon laughs. “No. I prefer being spanked. By women. Gorgeous women like yourself.”

She shrugs. “Pity. You’re cute, but I’m not a switch. Sorry!”

Theon barely has a moment to feel disappoint at another strike out when another girl takes her place, leather filling his senses. Kyra sits on his lap, her long hair brushing the skin of his neck, falling in waves behind them. “I’m still mad at you, you idiot.”

He grins at her, suddenly feeling like a king with this beautiful girl on his lap. Maybe he isn't totally lost tonight. He can make this right. “I know. I don’t blame you, babe.”

She slaps him playfully with her latex gloves. “I outta beat you.”

“Would you?” He asks her in a joking tone, though he is far from joking.

She grabs his face with both hands and scowls. “Shut up, Theon. Just. Shut up.” Kyra presses her lips to his hard and he melts in her grasp.

Things progress quick enough, from drunken kissing, tasting vodka on her tongue, to doing body shots. This is better than Theon could have imagined the night going, in reality.

Theon attempts to take a shot of whiskey from inside of Kyra’s leather-bound cleavage, his tongue laving at the skin of her breasts in a quite obviously failed attempt to down the shot, perched precariously in the valley between her two mounds. She giggles, a twinkly sound that Theon always found charming.

When she laughs, it isn’t fake, it always comes from her heart. Her heart isn’t as rotten as Theon’s is, after all.

Throughout all of this, a guy approaches them, staring Kyra down in a manner that Theon doesn’t like. The fucking bro snaps his fingers at them loudly, simultaneously jerking the thumb of the same hand back towards his shoulder.

It’s a ‘get lost’ signal if Theon has ever seen one. Fucking _rude_.

Theon’s never had a guy try to dismiss him with a damn finger snap. Un-fucking believable. Clearly this guy doesn’t know who Theon is. If he did, he wouldn’t be trying to tell him to get lost like last week’s bad news.

Scowling, Theon leans around Kyra and wraps his arms around her tighter. “Hey, asswipe-”

Kyra slams her hand onto Theon mouth. Mumbling into her hand, Theon raises his eyebrows at her in surprise. “Theon,” she breathes out airily, “it’s alright. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Spluttering in outrage, Theon watches as Kyra scrambles off of his lap and nearly _scurries_ away. The guy is still standing there with his hip against the bar, arms crossed over his chest, watching Kyra leave imperiously. Frown deepening, Theon takes a long swill from his whiskey. “You’ve gone and done it now. So, fuck off then, yeah?”

There is no smile on the other man’s lips. His eyes, when Theon finally meets them, make him feel like he’s naked. Straight down to the bone. A shiver runs down Theon’s spine. He can’t explain it, but he feels like he’s looked into the eyes of a rabid wolf.

Those pale eyes, complimented by midnight hair, flicker over Theon’s drink, then back to Theon’s green-blue gaze. “If you thought I would allow another Dom to play with my territory, in _my_ club, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Everything that makes Theon a living, breathing human being dies with those words. That voice. It was like an ice-cold knife to the heart. Even Theon’s intestines felt like shriveling into nothing out of fear. It was a primal reaction, how his entire body went into a fight or flight mode, his breath coming hard, heart pounding louder than the club bass.

“B…Bolton,” Theon stutters humiliatingly.

Ramsay Bolton’s eyelids lower slightly over his pale, wolf like eyes as Theon addresses him. Without further say so, he backhands Theon roughly, though not as hard as Theon _knew_ he could hit. Gasping, Theon presses his whiskey glass against the warmed flesh of his cheekbone, eyes watering.

_Motherfucker can hit. Even when he isn’t trying._

A hand tangles in Theon’s hair as Bolton steps closer. Ridiculously, Theon is noticing the scent of his cologne and is horrified to know how familiar he finds it. How it makes him think of knives, pain, and release. “You don’t call me that. Not here. I’m ‘Sir’ to you.”

Theon considers holding his tongue and saying it. His mind knows what is right, but Theon was always a rebel and doing the right thing isn’t in his bag of tricks. “I’m not calling you that.”

The other man towers over him even though he isn’t much taller than Theon himself. There’s an aura to him, domination and intimidation just seem to cling to Bolton like a second skin. “Say that again like you mean it,” Bolton says, his voice a blade against Theon’s jugular.

Only a fool would say it again. “Do you really want me to?” Theon asks warily, looking into those arctic eyes in both awe and terror.

The cologne reminds Theon of cinnamon and forest, something spicy and wild. _I wonder what it is, shit is good,_ he thinks vaguely. The right side of Bolton’s lip twitches upwards into a slight smirk. “The outcome is in my favor either way. Your. Choice.”

It isn’t as though the response surprises Theon. He knows that saying no again will result in punishment and he knows the other man will relish dealing it out. If he just gives in and says what Bolton wants, Bolton wins his humiliation.

A true lose-lose situation and Theon feels like this is the story of his life all wrapped up in one. He sags in Bolton’s grasp and scowls up at the other man, hating his shark-like smirk as it bears down on him. “Sir, I’ll call you _fucking_ Sir.”

The smirk only widens, a hint of teeth glittering behind his lips as he looks down at Theon. Bolton hums, barely audible above the sound of the club. “Well, that needs some work. Apologize nicely, and I won’t tear your hair out.”

Theon gags, feeling the hand in his hair tighten painfully. “Excuse me? Do not-”

Bolton jerks his arm hard and fast with enough force that Theon nearly cries out in shock, jerking in his seat, expecting half a head of hair to get ripped out with the movement. Instead, Bolton holds back, but only just. “You’re not very smart. I get that. One. Last. Chance.”

Theon is _not_ losing a fistful of hair. He’s got a show this weekend. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m really sorry. Fuck.”

The hand in his hair lets go and Theon shudders. The other man sits down on the stool beside Theon, facing him with legs spread wide. Posturing. His dark shirt pulls at his shoulders and chest and Theon has a moment of envy.

“Better. You remember what I told you, don’t you? What I said would happen if you came back?” Bolton sneers cruelly and a not-laugh falls from his lips. “Of course you don’t remember. You’re like a child that won’t ever learn.”

Theon downs the rest of his whiskey and tries to not inhale the spicy cologne that is invading his senses. “I remember.”

Bolton gestures with two fingers to the bartender who scrambles to do his bidding faster than Theon has ever seen the woman move. She is always so slow to serve the customers, her attitude is so woe-is-me and goth. Barely even waiting for the bartender to finish the pouring the two doubles, Ramsay leans closer to Theon, nearly pressing him against the bar itself.

It is painfully uncomfortable and Theon feels boxed in.

“So, you admit you disobeyed me. You knew what coming back here meant.”

Theon tries to move back to his chair, trying to move the Dungeon Master away from pinning him against the counter with sheer intimidation. “I didn’t disobey shit. I didn’t come back to you, I came to the club to have a drink and hang out. Maybe I hoped to see Kyra.”

Warmth disappears suddenly, leaving Theon cold and alone as the other man leans back into his seat, away from Theon.  

“There’s plenty of clubs in town. Why are you in mine?”

“Because, my friend works here.”

The two doubles of whiskey are set down in front of Bolton and the bartender moves away fast. Bolton doesn’t take his cold eyes off of Theon as he reaches into his pocket, taking out a small dark box. He shifts it between his fingers as he gives Theon that look, the one that makes him feel like he has no secrets that this man can’t already see.

“Ah. Your friend. The girl whose tits you had your face buried in? Poor girl. She needs better taste.”

Theon opens his mouth to retort and something in those cold eyes dares him to do it. Therefore, he doesn’t, figures there are other battles to fight. Something is already happening, brewing on the sidelines and Theon just hasn’t grasped how deep in his.

“What’s in the box? A mico-dick?” Theon taunts instead, eyeing the small object in Bolton’s grasp.

Bolton grins slightly, looking down at his own hand. He positions it, as if ready to open it when a dark-haired woman comes over and wraps her arms around him from behind. Theon feels his stomach drop, because he can’t imagine anyone touching this man so casually without expecting the consequences.

She whispers something in Bolton’s ear, blatantly ignoring Theon. Interestingly enough, Bolton does not seem amused. “Myranda, if I wanted to see you, I would have asked for you down in the room. I’m busy.”

Her blue eyes snap open and now she sees Theon. She looks at him from the other man’s shoulder, confusion written on her face. “With him? Your calendar said you were free after ten…”

Fast as a snake, Bolton grabs her by the chin hard, fingers pressing with bruising force into her skin. “Do not snoop into my shit. Remember what happened to the last girl who did that.”

When he lets go of her, she stumbles back and looks at Theon again, suddenly realizing she is being tossed aside in favor of someone else. Her eyes narrow dangerously and a strange light comes to them, one Theon is shocked to see.

She’s mad with jealousy. She’s jealous of Theon. _What the fuck_.

“Who are you?” Her voice is a growl.

“ _Get_!” Bolton snarls, his tone ugly.

The woman, Myranda, walked off quickly without another comment, her face red.

“You treat her like a dog,” Theon remarks, still shook.

“She is one,” Bolton replies, rolling his eyes with disgust.

The eye rolling strikes Theon as a human reaction and it seems wrong.

Bolton opens the small box and reveals two very non-descript looking pills. With a meaningful look at Theon, he drops both into one of the whiskey glasses, the pills beginning to disintegrate with a flair of bubbles.

Theon’s stomach sinks. He not one to say no to drugs, not by a long shot. This is the dark side of the moon with a man who has tortured him into oblivion. Whatever those drugs are…Theon has no idea what the effect will be and what will happen to him.

Usually he would do drugs with his friends, people he feels generally safe with. Or he would do them at home alone, wallowing in his own self-pity and worthlessness. Not with a man who looks like he wouldn’t mind seeing what Theon’s insides look like painted on the walls.

Not ever.

The cold fire that burns in Bolton’s eyes flares into life at Theon’s expression of dismay.

“Let’s play a game. I want to see how far you can go.” Ramsay Bolton smiles broadly and holds out both of the glasses to Theon.

_Every time I feel like I know what I’m getting myself into and every time I’m wrong. So dead wrong._

Theon feels like he is in quicksand as he reaches out to grasp the glasses. His hand is shaking wildly, but perhaps he is imagining it.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Sir.”

“What do you want me to do, _Sir_ ,” Theon says with exaggeration.

Bolton raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, eyes boring straight through Theon’s skull. “Why, I want you to drink them both. Obviously. Clearly. I mean, _really_.”

Theon hesitates. “What are the pills?”

“Does it matter?”

Of course it matters and yet it doesn’t. Theon is going to be at his mercy whether he likes it or not. It is just a matter of Theon accepting it and letting go. It’s all about control and lord knows Theon has never been in control.

He raises the glass in a mock cheer, smiling grimly at the other man. He raises the spiked glass to his lips and vaguely considers that it feels like he is knowingly drinking poison with a very dangerous enemy.

The thought terrifies him for only a moment, then Theon finds he doesn’t care. He examines his fear and wraps it around himself like a cloak, revels in it.

He’s thrown himself to the wolf and he doesn’t know if he’s coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos fuel me!!!


	5. Control, The Lack Thereof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Game of Thrones or the characters. Those all belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> **AN:** I'm baaaack. Now that the last season is here, I am pumped again to write more of poor Theon.  
>  I love all of your comments so far!! Thank you all. I'll keep on top of them this time because I owe a few of you responses. We need more Thramsay, people. MORE.
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING:** Some may find the contents of this chapter disturbing due to Theon being drugged. While Theon consented to take unknown drugs in the prior chapter, there is nonconsensual touching and handling that occurs in this chapter that may bother some readers, due to the fact that Theon is heavily under the influence and cannot technically consent to anything. This chapter alone has a warning for **nonconsensual touching** There are threats of noncon as well.

The world is a blur, flashes of light twinkling like unholy stars across Theon’s vision as he is guided away.

Away. To nowhere, he doesn’t even care, he’s so heavy he could sink into the floor and disappear without a trace. He can feel the club’s bass thrumming through his bones, a low song curling through him. Time seems slow, riding the rising and falling wave of the music.

Ramsay is a solid force beside him, his hand on his back as he guides Theon. The heat of his hand burns through Theon’s shirt. They squeeze their way through the packed dance floor and make their way to a stairway that leads up.

Theon hasn’t gone up before. _This is new_ , he thinks in the fog of drugs.

Up and up they go and Theon wonders if they are going to heaven. Or something. But probably not.

Through the blur, he finds himself in front of a large, ornate chair. “Kneel,” hisses Ramsay, pressing on Theon’s shoulders until he drops to his knees. Ramsay situates him like one would a child. He faces Theon towards a large platform so that the chair is at Theon’s back. The platform has people on it and it appears that a woman is whipping a man while others watch.

Ramsay situates himself in the chair behind Theon, his thighs on either side of him. A hand wraps around the front of Theon’s neck, tilting his head back uncomfortably. Ramsay is looking down at him sternly. “Behave yourself. You’re next.”

The back of Theon’s head is touching Ramsay’s crotch in this position and the idea of it bothers Theon from a faraway place, the high he is floating in too slow and numbing to care. Ramsay abruptly lets go of Theon neck, allows him to look forward again. In the next moment, a blindfold is wrapped around Theon’s eyes and he jerks nervously. “Hush,” Ramsay snaps softly.

Theon has no idea how long they sit there. Ramsay must be observing the spectacle in front of them, but Theon can only listen to it, shivering and flinching every time a loud lash strikes flesh. Every time a scream pierces the air.

_You’re next._

His knees begin to ache and he drifts into sleep for a moment he thinks. He jerks awake at the sound of another desperate yell. Sighing, Theon rests his head on Ramsay’s warm thigh, not caring how that probably looks. He’s already kneeling between the guy’s legs after all.

Theon’s so tired. He wants to crawl into bed and drift away.

He doesn’t notice the way Ramsay stiffens at his action. He does notice when Ramsay widens his legs, as if trying to get away from contact with Theon.

_Tough luck man, I’m tired and your thigh is comfortable,_ Theon thinks drunkenly. Though blindfolded, he leans after the leg that inched away, resting against it fully. He wraps one arm around his calf to make sure he doesn’t move it again.

He can feel Ramsay sigh, though it is an exasperated sound. Something in Theon tells him he isn’t _allowed_ to do this, but screw the rules. He never listens to rules anyway. A hand tangles in his hair and a smile almost comes to his lips, he enjoys the firm touch on his scalp.

A glass is pressed against his lips and Theon smells more whiskey. His tongue darts out, dipping into the glass to get a taste. He’s beyond wrecked already, though, he doesn’t want anymore. As he pulls his head away, Ramsay tells him to drink it down in a tone with no give.

Theon does as he is ordered, letting the fire of the drink warm his belly further. A slice of worry tells him he’s going to be sick as a dog soon. He’s well beyond his limit. He only does as he is ordered and Ramsay allows him to rest his body against his leg again when he is done with the glass.

Theon remains in this mostly contented state until he is pulled to his feet and guided forward. Ah. It must be his turn on the torture platform, huh? He’s rather dizzy now, even under the blindfold.

He is pushed to the hard ground and he winces as his kneecaps creak. His arms are jerked back into a strange contortion, hands tied together up high in the middle of his shoulder blades, elbows nearly touching.

“Ouch,” Theon mutters, almost an afterthought.

Ramsay jerks the ropes tighter and Theon yelps in earnest. He loops the ropes around down to Theon’s ankles, so that Theon must crunch backwards under the strain of the ropes. His neck aches as his shoulders are pressed back to alleviate the pull from his ankles.

The blindfold is ripped off and Theon blinks absently to see his new surroundings as Ramsay retreats away. Theon’s bleary eyes follow him until Ramsay returns to his seat directly across from Theon, sitting in that monstrous, high backed black chair. It is strange though, why is the Dungeon Master just observing again?

Theon sighs in disappointment; he had hoped they would play together. Instead, _fucking Sir_ is sitting on his ass.

It looks ridiculously like a throne. Theon thinks it suits the man.

Through his drugged haze, he can faintly feel a strain in his joints, in his muscles. The worst is his neck. It would probably be more uncomfortable if Theon weren’t slightly numb from drink and drugs.

A woman comes up to him, runs her hands over his body. He tries to get a good look at her, tries to speak to her, but she ignores him. She examines him as if he were an animal, like livestock at a farm.

It is completely strange.

Another woman steps onto the platform as well, from behind Theon. She runs her hand around his waist to his crotch, running her hands up and down his length through his jeans. Strange, nervous arousal jolts through Theon as she continues to stroke him. The woman is laughing in a low, sultry voice. “What a nice package you have,” she whispers to him.

The fact that Theon can’t actually stop her from groping him mollifies him. He’s tied up and she can do whatever she wants with him. Disgust and arousal fight for control inside of Theon and he hates himself as he begins to grow hard. In front of _everyone_. It’s not like they can miss what is hiding in his jeans as it begins to grow.

Unable to help it, he groans loudly, hangs his head in embarrassment.

“Ladies,” Ramsay says evenly, too evenly. “You’re invoking my ire. This is supposed to be punishment, not a reward.”

The girls step away, one shoving her tongue in Theon’s mouth before abandoning him. She tastes of gin. “Forgive us, Dungeon Master. He’s a treat,” the sultry one says as they saunter away, giggling.

It isn’t long before someone else replaces them, but this person begins to paddle the living daylights out of Theon. It must be acceptable, as Ramsay remains silent on his dark throne, observing but no longer interfering.

Watching Theon take his punishment.

Theon’s flesh burns and aches, but the drugs only dull the sensation slightly. Time passes fast and slow in different turns. He can’t keep track of all the different people that come by to check him out, touch him, hit him, fondle him.

Then, he hears a complaint.

“You know this isn’t acceptable! He’s drugged!” The voice is vaguely familiar. A woman’s voice, imperious and righteous. Theon knows that voice, but he just can’t place it at the moment, everything is so fuzzy, so far away.

“This is strange. I hear you speaking about this slave as if he has anything to do with you.” Ah. The only voice in this fuzzy blur that Theon cares about. That sharp, cold voice, filled with promise. Ramsay. The one who wants him to call him fucking ‘ _Sir_ ’.

“He cannot consent to what you are doing to him.”

_Consent? What is…consent? Why is she so…angry?_ Theon’s thoughts spin, drifting here and there. He cannot keep up. His body is hurting.

“Really? He sipped the drinks himself. I didn’t force him.”

Theon ponders this as a new male form steps onto the platform beside him. This new person is changing the way he is tied up, changing the position of his arms. Distantly, it is uncomfortable, but Theon doesn’t mind. Too…too tired to care, too tired to fight. At least he is untied from his ankles now.

_I drank something…are they talking about me? I don’t remember. I would have done anything_ he _wanted though._

“Ha! You didn’t force him? He knew what you wanted, he wanted to please you!”

“As he should.” Theon can almost imagine sharp teeth, sinking into his neck at those words, at that tone of voice. Theon shivers.

“Please, let me untie him. Just chain him beside you; what you’re doing right now is cruel. He doesn’t even know what’s happening, he’s too drugged,” the woman says beseechingly.

Theon feels bad for her; he wants to tell her not to worry about him. He’ll be okay, he’s sure of it.

In an airy voice, Ramsay says, “Cruel or not, he will remain there until I say otherwise. I don’t care if he is fucked sideways, he will learn his place.”

_Wait, what…?_ Through the haze of the drugs and alcohol, Theon suddenly feels ill, nervous. The blurs around him suddenly seem like monsters in the night and he doesn’t want to be tied here anymore. He doesn’t want some stranger, or strangers to do what they want to his body.

He doesn’t want it.

There is the sound of flesh hitting flesh, a slap perhaps. Theon really can’t tell; he can’t focus. A new female form is in front of him, she’s touching his face in a manner that makes him feel like a thing rather than a person.

His skin crawls again.

Ramsay is growling now and Theon imagines he is one who received the slap. “Let me pose a question to you; do you enjoy having your bills paid? If not, by all means, hit me again.”

“You…you absolute bas…ugh! You know what you are!” Heels click hard against the floor as the indignant woman storms off. Theon sees a flash of silvery hair and imagines it to be Daenerys, Breaker of Balls.

Theon thinks he might like her a little; she can be nice when she wants to be. He hears Ramsay mutter after her, “Uppity bitch.”

It is then that someone approaches Theon’s form from behind, undoes the rough ropes around his arms and wrists where they are tied behind his back. Theon sighs, starts to thank this person when his arms are stretched out in front of him. His muscles ache as this person, another man, places his outstretched wrists in a cold, hard grasp.

Manacles.

Theon jolts drunkenly, tries to pull away, but is jerked back onto his front with the jangle of chains. He’s chained to the ground, ass in the air. “Hey…wha…let me out of this!”

In a swift, violent motion, the man behind him unbuckles Theon’s belt and rips down his jeans. The shock of it leaves Theon cold despite the drugged haze that surrounds him. This…this isn’t right. He can feel the chill of the air on the soft skin of his rear and he feels gooseflesh prickle on his arms.

He’s exposed to everyone and shame brings fresh blood to Theon’s face. What would his father think of him now? He would shake his head at Theon, but he wouldn’t even be surprised, he would just expect Theon to be a disgusting failure.

Trying to calm his nerves, Theon tells himself that maybe the man is going to paddle him, but a rough, seeking hand on his exposed flesh tells otherwise. The hand reaches under him and gropes his balls, briefly brushes against his limp cock.

Revulsion slams into Theon. He tugs and thrashes against the manacles holding him. He may enjoy twisted things, but he certainly does not want some strange fucking man sexually assaulting him in a club…in front of other people!

A man no less! No. _Fucking_. Chance.

Theon raises his head to try and see Ramsay, seated across from him. Surely the Dungeon Master isn’t actually alright with this? Bolton may be a sick fuck, but surely he wouldn’t want to see Theon used like this? Would he?

_That fucker would,_ Theon thinks, trying to focus on the chair that Ramsay is lounging in.

The man hasn’t moved, just gazes at Theon with disinterest, as if Theon is boring him. Theon will show him boring. He kicks out awkwardly, hearing the man behind him grunt with pain. “Fuck off, mate.”

This earns him a whack to the back of his head, causing his forehead to smash into the platform. Theon groans, head spinning.

“This one isn’t trained well, is he? A little raw…and a guy,” the man behind him is saying, speaking to Ramsay as he manhandles Theon once more without regard to Theon’s vocal threats. “This isn’t your type.”

Ramsay’s dark chuckle washes over Theon as he shifts in his throne, sneering. “He’s not. But I suppose that’s part of his charm.” Ramsay nods and makes a gesture with his hand, leaning his head against the high back of the elaborate chair.

The chair literally looks like something a villain out of a fantasy film would sit in.

The man thrusts his hips against Theon’s rear and everything in Theon screams no. His body is so exhausted, so sick with the drugs, but he knows his own limits and this is beyond any line he could ever think of.

He’ll beg, he will fucking beg for mercy. There is only one person in control here and it clearly isn’t Theon. “Please! Make him stop! I’ll…I’ll do anything you want! Fuck. Just…just don’t let him do this.”

Ramsay’s form is motionless in his thronelike chair, but Theon knows he is watching him intently. Despite the blur, he can feel that gaze on his body, drinking in his misery and terror. Probably enjoying it.

The hand on Theon’s rear drifts into the valley between his cheeks and he thrashes wildly. He doesn’t want to be touched back there and certainly not by a man. He doesn’t even know who is back there, which makes the whole situation worse.

Theon has been reduced to a thing that others can touch and use as they please, but he doesn’t want that. Not the others. He _chose_ the person he would allow this from and that person is sitting a few feet in front of him.

Fingers touch his rim.

“ _Don’t fucking touch me_ ,” Theon yells with hysteria, probably slurred.

Ramsay still hasn’t moved, his form slouched in his chair with an uncaring air, legs spread open wide. Theon wonders if he’s hard, if watching Theon struggle has him hot and bothered under that uncaring demeanor. Theon blinks his eyes, tries to clear his vision, but everything blurs and spins. When clarity finally comes to Theon, he realizes in a rush what is going on.

Well, he’s always known that this is a power play, but Ramsay wants something from him. He wants something from Theon and he will let Theon hang on a hook until Theon _gives_.

_What…what does he want? What could a man like him want from me? He doesn’t actually want to see this man rape me, does he?_

_But he’s a sadist,_ another part of Theon’s mind whispers. _He’s not just a Dom. He’s also a sadist._

Theon can suddenly see the difference. Daenerys is a Dom, but she certainly is not a sadist, the pain of others gives her no joy. Ramsay Bolton though, he thrives on control and agony, a dangerous mix.

The fingers behind him begin to push against his entrance and Theon’s mind nearly whites out in horror. He yells out the only thing he can possibly think of. “Please, _Sir_! I’ll do anything…just _please_.”

Ramsay raises a hand instantly and the man behind Theon pulls away quickly. Theon nearly sobs in relief.

“That sounded lovely. Anything, hm? What if I want to see you fucked on his hand? His fist, maybe?” Ramsay Bolton now is leaning forward in his chair, his renewed interest showing.

Dread coils in Theon’s belly at those words. He throws his pride out the window, lets it die. “Please. _Sir_. Just you. I…I chose you. Only you…control m..me.”

Finally, the Dungeon Master deigns to step down from his dark throne of sin. He stops before Theon, kneels beside him and wraps his hand in his hair. Theon shakes, hopes that he has read the man right. Hopes he has played the right cards to get out of this hellish situation.

The hand in his hair is gentle. “Good boy,” Bolton whispers, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Theon gasps into the platform, facedown when Ramsay unlocks the manacles holding his aching wrists captive. Ramsay’s hands grab at Theon’s waist and Theon tries to bat him away, nervous. Ramsay rolls his eyes and pulls Theon’s jeans back into place, buckles his belt for him.

Covering Theon from prying eyes.

“Than…thanks,” Theon slurs, the adrenaline leaving his body, leaving him wrecked once more.

The drugs are winding through him like a snake now, pulling at him hard. He feels like he is falling underwater and can’t reach the surface.

Ramsay stands him up, supports him as he nearly falls down, Theon’s legs shaking. The world is spinning and he feels ill, so ill. Like he will never be clean again. He presses his face into Ramsay’s neck, inhales his cologne. His lips absently touch Ramsay’s skin. Theon didn’t mean to do it, but he can feel the Dungeon Master stiffen. Ramsay grabs him by the neck and pulls Theon’s face away, giving Theon a strange look.

Theon’s vision blurs again.

Theon allows Ramsay to march him away from the dreaded display platform. He stumbles a few times as they go down the winding stairs once more, but Ramsay keeps a strong grip on him and Theon likes that he takes care of him so well.

_Oh, yes. He takes such good care of you after he’s humiliated you and debased you._

They enter a bathroom and Theon vaguely sees people rush out when they enter. He wonders where they are going so fast and why.

_Because the man next to you is terrifying and everyone knows it. Maybe they know what he does when the club closes. Maybe they know what he does for Roose Bolton in that murder room on the bottom floor._

Theon wonders if the hands on him have killed, if that frigid gaze has ever watched the light fade from someone’s eyes. Theon would almost bet on it and it terrifies him.

_Why do you let him even touch you? He’s a monster,_ Theon thinks.

_Because you deserve it,_ he mentally answers himself.

Ramsay muscles him into one of the stalls and Theon finds it strange in a hazy way. “Are we…going to the bathroom…together? Like chicks?” Theon giggles with a tad bit of crazy.

The other man snorts. “You _are_ fucked up. Bend over the toilet. Now.”

He can feel Ramsay plastered against the full line of his spine, warm heat that makes him sweat as he allows the other man to wrap an arm around his waist and bend his body forward with a hand pressing between his shoulders. Theon’s head hangs over the bowl and he snickers drunkenly. “So, you’re going to fist me in a stall then? Finish what the other guy started?”

“It’s what you deserve, so don’t tempt me. Insolent cunt,” the Dungeon Master says wryly.

The cruel amusement in his tone sends heat into Theon’s belly and he hates himself for it. What is it about this fucking guy that has him acting like a complete bitch? He’s not _gay._

_Because deep down you like how he humiliates you, plays nasty daddy to your pathetic, sad little boy._

Theon wishes his turncoat thoughts would fuck off, because they are out of line.

The hand that isn’t gripping Theon’s waist is suddenly in his mouth, fingers pressing hard into the back of his throat. Theon jolts violently, gagging and gasping around the sudden intrusion. He can barely breathe and his stomach lurches madly.

Theon grabs at the hand in his mouth, but cannot dislodge Ramsay. Ramsay thrusts his hand in harder and Theon dry heaves onto it. His chest burns horribly and everything is pain now. He can taste Ramsay’s skin on his tongue, salty. “Let it out,” Ramsay says soothingly. “I’ve got you. Let it out. Now.”

Another hard thrust of the hand, fingers pressing hard. This time, the fingers don’t let up until Theon is vomiting into the toilet bowl. Black floats before Theon’s eyes as he fades, senses that he is about to vomit his guts up again.

He does until there is nothing left. There’s that sickeningly sweet voice in his ear, telling him what a good job he’s done.

Panting, he presses back against the body behind his own, shaking with effort and relief from the sickness in his stomach. He hears a slight inhalation behind him and he presses back again. Ramsay stills Theon’s hips with controlling hands, hissing lowly, “ _Stop_. Stop what you’re doing, Greyjoy.”

_He knows who I am…_ Theon thinks blankly as darkness dances across his vision.

Then he’s no more and that’s always been fine with Theon.


	6. Lines of Ivory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. All belong to George R. R. Martin

_An arm is around his shoulder, pulling him close. The scent of the sea is all around him, consuming, overpowering._

_Salt, depths, and darkness. Calm and power._

_“It’s a rite of passage; surely you’ve heard that you can’t become a man until you’ve drowned? At least, not here. Not in the Iron Islands.”_

_Theon must be dreaming, because Maron is dead. The dream, the memory rather, comes into stark clarity as he can feel the sand beneath his feet, see the stretch of Ironman’s Bay before him. The sun is high in the sky, directly over them._

_He can see the cut of Rodrik’s shoulders, his eldest brother leading the way some feet ahead. Leading them to the sea._

_Always in the lead. Balon’s favorite son._

_The memory fractures, a momentary blur, a flicker of painful light in Theon’s mind. Maron is whispering in his ear, unkind amusement dancing on his lips. All three of them are now waist deep in the glittering waters. Light reflects harshly off the gentle waves that lap at their bodies. “You have to do it. You’ll always be a pussy if you don’t.”_

_“…but…”_

_“Don’t start your whining. Turn around,” Rodrik says sternly, always so stern._

_His green eyes are unyielding, just like iron. Theon stares up at his brother and knows he has no choice. Both of them can easily overpower him; they just prefer to have him go along with their bullying._

_Theon does as he is commanded, turns so that his back faces the open sea, the water slapping his back. His heart is racing and he can feel himself going pale with terror. Maron stands on his left, Rodrik on his right, both looking at each other over his head._

_Both place a hand on one of his shoulders, then their other hand on his chest, pressing him backwards under he is completely submerged._

_Down, down they press him._

_It’s like dying, he thinks, as the salty water rushes into his nose, his eyes closed tight. He holds his breath for as long as he can, but it isn’t long enough. He struggles against their grip, but they do not budge, they will not let him up. They use their combined weight to keep him submerged._

_He can’t breathe and his lungs begin to burn._

_Theon doesn’t fight though; this is what his brothers want. They want him to drown so that he can prove himself in the eyes of the Ironborn. Perhaps his brothers will look on him with more fondness if he does as they wish._

_He lets the burn overtake him, goes slack in their grip. Opens his eyes to see the sun reflecting on the surface, the shadows of Rodrik and Maron close above, holding him down. Eventually, things fade and Theon lets himself float away._

_It’s for the best. It’s what they want from him._

_Distantly, he hears a scream of rage and one of the forms above him is struck, crimson spilling into the water. The red is like gems in the clear sea, the sun brightening it before it drifts down to where Theon is drowning._

_It’s beautiful, Theon thinks as he fades into the black._

_When he comes to again, someone’s mouth is on his, breathing life into him once more. His sister looks down at him, pale and drawn, her eyes wild._

_Maron stands behind her, pale green eyes seeming lost. Theon doesn’t understand why he seems so lost. His brother always knows what is best._

_“He wasn’t supposed to actually drown,” Maron rasps. “He wasn’t supposed to take it so literally. We thought he would put up a fight to be let back up.”_

_“But he didn’t,” his sister snaps coldly, frigid wrath in her eyes._

_Rodrik runs a hand through Theon’s wet hair and Theon thinks that’s rather nice of him, feels elation that his oldest brother is paying him any attention that isn’t cruel. “What is dead may never die.”_

He comes into being wondering who the hell he is. In fact, Theon isn’t even sure where he is or how he got there, all he feels is the exhaustion in his body, the sick feeling of a drug hangover gone too far. With a groan, he opens his eyes, blinking away the blur. His eyes are so dry and his mouth tastes like something from the abyss.

The dream, the memory floats away. He’s not in the sea. He’s not drowned. For a moment, he feels a hole in his chest, the hole his brothers used to occupy, despite their bullying. They had been Balon’s favorites and Theon had so wanted to be like them.

As a wave of sickness washes over him, he pushes the memories away, the painful thoughts.

He focuses on the now. It takes only moments to realize that everything feels and smells familiar. His unwashed sheets to be exact. Blinking, stretching his body, Theon suddenly gets the insight that he is home, in his own bed. The _how_ of that is eluding him.

He sits up quickly, groans at the agony in his skull. His sinuses are clogged and he feels like never leaving the safety of his bed again.

_How the hell did I get home last night? What did I do?_

He vaguely remembers the club. Kyra. _Ramsay_. Drinking the drugged liquor. Being on stage, being touched, handled…being stripped against his will…

Theon swallows roughly, feels ill. He doesn’t remember if anything had actually happened to his body. Had anyone…done anything to him? It’s all too fuzzy, he can’t be sure. He’s blacked out half of the night, all he knows is that he was there and minor details, points in time.

_I’m supposed to be on the road for shows starting tonight. I’m to meet the guys at the bus so we can take off to Red Keep. I’m supposed to meet them at…what…3pm?_

_Oh._

“Shit.” Theon says aloud, panic momentarily erasing the pain in his body. “What time is it? Crap. Crap! Where is my phone?”

His throat is scratchy and slightly sore. A moment of dizziness passes over him.

He searches the sheets madly, scrambling because he knows that he never plugs it in when he is wasted. Did he lose it? He probably left the damn thing in the club. Of course he did. Drowned God, he’s a fool.

Through his hungover fog, he hears the beep of his phone, a notice that he has a text.

Blinking in surprise, he glances at the one place he never expected; his bedside table. He nearly crows with laughter as he sees his phone there, plugged in nice as you please. Which, he never does himself…so who did it? He certainly didn’t bring his own ass home, after all. Kyra maybe?

Grabbing his phone, he unlocks the screen and though he sees that he has one unread message, the thing that takes his complete attention is the image that his phone background has been updated to. “What. The. Actual. Fuck.”

It’s a picture of him, blindfolded and kneeling on the ground between another man’s legs. The photo is cropped so that it only goes to mid-chest of the man sitting in the throne-like chair, so his face is hidden. Theon knows who it is though, knows with every fiber of his being. Theon is facing the person taking the picture, and his head is resting on the thigh of the man behind him. The man’s hand is in his hair, tangled in Theon’s locks possessively.

Something low in Theon’s stomach burns as he stares at the picture, trying to see himself the way the photo shows him. His cock twitches and his cheeks flush in humiliation. This isn’t a normal reaction; he should be horrified.

He looks wrecked, like a toy for someone else’s pleasure. He looks like he belongs to someone in a way he’s never belonged to another person. The image burns into his retinas and he tries to remember more in his fuzzy memory.

Ugh. He hopes social media doesn’t have this picture. The band would kill him.

Nervously, he checks the one unread message. The number is one he doesn’t recognize, but the tone of the text displays who it is instantly.

_Don’t forget your place._

That’s it. That’s all the text says, but Theon knows with a sinking feeling that Ramsay put the photo as Theon’s background, found Theon’s number in his phone and then used it to text him.

A twinge of embarrassment slides through Theon as he glances around his messy apartment; did Ramsay _fucking_ Bolton bring him home? The idea of that is too intimate and Theon doesn’t like it, doesn’t want Ramsay to exist outside of the darkness of the nightclub.

He’s pristine, exact. He’s got money under his belt, Theon’s seen it with the watches he wears, his shirts, his cologne. All of it screams upper class even if the man himself is a beast in sheep’s clothing. Theon is a tornado mess and his apartment shows it.

Despite being a Greyjoy, Theon doesn’t have the cash backing him; his father never lifted a finger to help Theon in any way. Everything Theon has, he’s had to get himself. He’s been alone for a long time.

The idea of the Dungeon Master seeing where he lives makes Theon feel bare, violated. He suddenly can’t stop thinking about it, wondering what the other man had looked like in his apartment, how his cold eyes must have regarded the place with disdain.

Theon groans and digs his fingers into his scalp.

It’s even worse to wrap his head around the idea that one of the more dangerous men in town now knows where he lives.

_But…he brought you home. He didn’t leave you to rot in the recovery room at the club. Not like the first time._

_If he brought me home…then that means…_

He gets out of the bed and walks to the window. Theon peeks out and distinctly does not see his car in the parking lot. Go fucking figure. How is he going to meet the guys before the bus takes off for the show later?

The Drowned Wolves are playing from Saturday until Thursday and this is not the way Theon should have started their mini tour.

He calls Robb, because he sure as hell isn’t calling Jon or that fuck Gendry. When Robb answers the phone with that typical snappy tone, Theon grins. “Hey. So. Uh…”

“Theon. What, man? You almost ready for later?”

“Yeah…uh…about that. I sorta need you to pick me up.”

“Oh, God. What did you do?” Robb sounds exasperated.

“Why do you always assume I’ve done something? I left my car at a club last night, I was being responsible, I’ll have you know.”

“Uhuh. Responsible. The night before a show. Must have been why you don’t have a car at the moment.”

“Robb! Are you going to come get me or not?”

Robb groans into the mouthpiece. “What choice do I have? I’m heading over now. You better be ready to rock, dude. I’ll destroy you if not.”

Theon grins and pops an excederin for his head. “Bring it on, Stark.”  
  


* * *

 

When Robb arrives outside, Theon steps out of his place shakily, guitar in hand. He starts walking down the stairs, tries to ignore the brief spin of illness that rocks his belly. The girl at the front desk of the building grins at him as he walks by. “I’m so glad you are doing better! You looked so sick last night, Theon. Or this morning, really. I had the early shift. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to do your shows the next few days, you looked _rough_.”

He turns and looks at her, a confused look on his face. “Yeah…I partied a little too hard last night. I was lucky to get home…”

Theon’s hoping she will say something about how he got back and she doesn’t disappoint.

She winks at him flirtatiously, as she always does. He isn’t entirely sure that he _hasn’t_ slept with her before.

“That friend of yours was so nice to get you back safely. Oh my God, though. Do you remember his car? It was to _die_ for,” she gushes.

Theon doesn’t remember dick and now he is curious. “…Yeah…” he responds lamely, not knowing what to say. He doesn’t want to expose himself as being completely blacked out to the point where a guy who most definitely isn’t his friend had to bring him home.

Without him even knowing.

“You’re so lucky to have a friend like that. He took such good care of you; you were practically asleep on his shoulder. He must be filthy rich to boot. Is he single?”

He has not a darn clue as to if Ramsay is single or boning on the regular and frankly, Theon does not care. Robb honks outside impatiently and Theon waves to the girl apologetically. “It’s been a pleasure, Kelly. As always.”

“It’s Katherine!”

Oops.

He slides into Robb’s Cadillac with a grin. “Sorry, man. That girl is always after my nuts.”

Robb rolls his eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Theon, I’m pretty sure she’s had them already.”

“Oh? I don’t recall.”

“I’ll bet. Spray yourself down, my cologne is in the dash. You smell like a bar, sweat, and barf and it’s godawful.”

Theon fishes around in the dash and pulls out Robb’s Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. “That better for you? Aw, now we can smell like we’ve been on each other all morning.”

Robb laughs, that full throated laugh that is utterly infectious.

They turn on the radio and sing along together until they hit their take off point. They shuffle out of the car and unpack their equipment, handing it to the roadies to load onto the bus. Gendry and Jon are already there, lounging inside.

Their manager, Littlefinger, approaches them with a blank expression. His eyes drift up and down Theon’s form with disgust and Theon stifles a groan. The guy always finds fault with him, as if Theon is purposely trying to ruin the band.

Theon fucks things up on accident; that’s part of his charm.

“Almost late,” Littlefinger rasps with that low tone of his. “Glad you two could find your way out of your collective asses and grace us with your presence.”

“We aren’t late,” Robb says sternly, never one to take anyone’s crap.

Littlefinger jerks his head towards the bus. “Saddle up boys. We have an hour drive to the show.”

“Yeah, yeah, we are well aware, Petyr.” Robb rolls his eyes, dragging Theon onto the bus.

Gendry and Jon are playing cards at the table and both barely glance up as Robb and Theon enter. Gendry places as card down and Jon looks at him seriously. “You’re an idiot, Gendry.”

“Your sister doesn’t think so,” Gendry shoots back with a mild tone.

Jon glowers. “Dude.”

Theon throws himself down on the couch with a groan, which draws Jon’s attention. The dark-haired man pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, gives Theon a strange look. “Is it a new thing for you to look like you’ve been buried under five groupies all night?”

“So, what if I was?”

Jon scoffs in disbelief.

“Can you two not start this?” Robb asks with a groan. “We are only three minutes into this drive.”

“Well, he needs to get off his high horse about the groupies. I mean, he’s got this feisty redhead babe and he doesn’t even know what to do with her.”

Pointing an accusing finger, Jon snaps, “Don’t you go talking about Ygritte!”

Theon stands up on the couch and grins, shaking his hips for good measure. “Hey, let me know if you need help with her. I’ll show her a good time for you, promise.”

Jon’s face goes an interesting shade of green and then pale. Then he leaps.

“Epic throwdown,” Gendry yells as Robb screams, “No, no! Guys, can you be fucking grown men!”

The window separating the front of the bus from the back slides open and Littlefinger hisses, “Don’t make me come back there.”

 ***

The bus ride doesn’t impress Theon’s lingering hangover and he gets no rest amid the constant squabbling between Jon and Robb. By the time they reach the first venue, Theon wants to claw his own ears off.

They get dressed, do their hair in the band room of the venue, waiting for the first two bands to finish their sets. Theon is exhausted and just wants to drop dead. It was such a mistake on his part to go to the club last night; he should have known better but simply couldn’t help himself.

He never can.

When it comes time to get on the stage, Littlefinger finds Theon alone in the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet.

His throat is raw, burns from the vomiting. Singing is going to hurt, but Theon deserves the punishment.

Littlefinger looks at Theon askance and gestures with his hands. “Look at you,” he says in that whispery tone that Theon despises, “you’re an absolute disgrace.”

He doesn’t look great, but he doesn’t look like a damned disgrace. Theon wipes his mouth absently, tastes bile on his tongue. “I’m always a little rough around the edges, so what?”

“Don’t even bother with the song and dance. I already know all of your excuses. I don’t even care what the story is, all I care about is that you get on that stage and rock. Can you do that?” Littlefinger gives him a slow, calculating look that makes Theon anxious. “Or do I need to give you a pick me up?”

Theon’s stomach drops. _Please don’t,_ he thinks anxiously.

The older man holds up a small bag and wiggles it at Theon teasingly and Theon runs a hand over his eyes. He groans with dismay. This is not how he had wanted to start this trip, absolutely not. If the other guys find out, they will be furious with him. “You don’t need to give me that. Robb won’t like it. I can do this. I’m fine.”

_I feel like passing out I’m so exhausted and my body already feels like garbage,_ Theon thinks sourly, trying to keep himself under control. That’s what Robb would want, for Theon to pull through without chemical help.

Unfortunately, Petyr doesn’t trust him worth a damn. He wouldn’t even trust Theon to pull on his own clothes. The man won’t risk a large show going under because his singer is three sheets to the wind.

The small baggie is upturned on the counter beside them, pure snow on dark granite. Littlefinger smiles tightly, that smile of his that never reaches his eyes. “You’re always my problem child. I guess every band has to have one. Be a good boy, Theon. Just do it. You’ll thank me later, no harm done. I won’t even tell Robb.”

Petyr hands him a bill and Theon reluctantly takes it, hating the man and hating himself.

_Good boy_ echoes in Theon’s mind as he bends down with the rolled bill, angles his head slightly. The voice in his head is Ramsay’s. For a moment, he can feel a ghost of a touch along his spine, strong hands tracing his vertebrae. Then Theon blinks the sensation away, focuses at the task at hand.

He glances up at Littlefinger, who is looking at him expectantly. He hates that fuck, always treating him like some fucking baby that needs to be handheld and force-fed drugs to perform the way he wants. He snorts the line of ivory, feels the instant burn and taste on the back of his tongue.

He’s weak, his father always told him he’s weak. Pathetic. Useless.

Always drunk or high, thinking it will numb the sting of dissatisfaction.

It never does.

Vaguely, he feels like a failure for doing this, he told Robb he would stay away from the drugs. He’s got little self-control; he’s never been good at saying no. He swipes the remaining powder up with his finger and brusquely rubs it across his gums, feels them go numb.

The smirking asshole beside him slaps him on the back good naturedly. As if he hadn’t just made Theon do a line. “Good man! Get out there. I’m excited to see what you do with the new material.”

_One minute…_

As Theon walks down the hall to prepare to get onto the stage, he only has a short time to feel absolutely awful about himself. Guilt eats at him, tears at his stomach like a rabid animal. He promised Robb he wouldn’t do shit like this anymore.

_Two minutes…_

_Three._

A mad rush of euphoria falls over him in a wave, energy roaring into his previously exhausted body. The lights on the ceiling brighten, like mini suns.

He smiles widely and throws an arm around Jon at the edge of the stage where the rest of the band is waiting, pulling Jon’s hair briefly. “Hey, keep off me,” Jon snaps, adjusting his sunglasses with a scowl.

Theon purrs at him and Jon’s face only seems to get sterner, if at all possible. Theon loves pissing him off. He pumps his fist in the air, and grabs his guitar. “Let’s get it, boys! Fuck, yeah!”

It feels like electricity is running through his veins instead of blood and it feels like Theon can’t be contained by his own body. He wants to peel off his flesh and explode, wants to die and live all rolled into one, a swirl of power screaming through him.

Yells of adoration peel in from just beyond as Gendry walks onto the stage with Jon. Theon steps forward, beginning to follow them in, the stage calling for him like the gravity of a large planet, but a firm hand on his shoulder pulls him around.

Gas-flame blue eyes examine him, brows furrowed. Robb sighs, lips tight as he gazes into Theon, straight down into his battered soul. Theon’s grin becomes that of a monster, getting painfully wide, so stretched that it would hurt if he didn’t feel indestructible.

Realization blooms in Robb’s eyes as he stares into Theon’s. Or rather, Theon’s pupils. Disappointment washes over his face and he shakes his head, sighing. “Dammit, Theon.”

_No, don’t look at me like that. I can’t bear to have you look at me like that,_ Theon thinks guiltily through the high.

Robb wraps a hand around the back of Theon’s head and presses his forehead to Theon’s, resting it there softly. Theon is probably sweating on him and he feels rather bad about that. Sort of. His body is screaming to grab Robb and go dancing madly through a crowd of groupies, but the logical part of Theon knows that isn’t the best thing to do.

Those sorts of things always seem to get caught on video and the social media machine always goes wild over them. Robb would be unappreciative of that, as always.

“I wish I could save you from all the things you do to yourself,” Robb breathes softly, the words touching Theon’s lips, before stepping away. Robb steps out onto the stage with his bass, leaving Theon to sort himself out.

Theon blinks rapidly, considers. Tries to focus on what just happened, but the electricity in his body tells him to get on the stage, to shred and sing and rock the arena. How Robb feels is secondary to what Theon knows he must go do, what he wants to do.

_Selfish._

Time seems to slow as Theon walks out, guitar strapped on. He’s faster than the world, he’s so much more right now and he will show them all. As he steps onto the stage, the light as bright as the sun, Theon knows he will tell Robb later that it isn’t his fault.

It isn’t.

 

* * *

 

In the locker room at the _Dreadfort Nightclub_ , a group of bartenders and cage dancers huddle together around the television, absently doing their makeup and hair before the club opens. Myranda glowers at them all, knowing what they are watching.

“I was so disappointed that I couldn’t get off work tonight to go see them!” One of the girls whines, zipping up her latex suit.

Another applies black lipstick absently. “They are all the way in Red Keep, that’s like an hour drive anyway.”

“So? The Drowned Wolves are worth it.”

Myranda rolls her eyes; these bitches and their bands. No better than groupies in her opinion.

Someone sighs dreamily. “Look at him. I love the way he sings. All the pain and agony that comes out of him, gah…can’t stand it. I bet he would be a lovely sub.”

“No way! He’d probably be a switch. Gotta love a man who can do both.”

“Isn’t he familiar…?”

Turning to look at the lead singer, Myranda does a double take as the screen zooms in on him. Surprise and irritation battle in her stomach; she’s seen this guy before. She’s seen him in the _Dreadfort_. She fucking saw him _last night_. “Who is he?” She asks idly, trying to hide her interest.

Last night, Ramsay had mentioned he would show her the new needle set he had gotten; instead she found him in the most unlikely place. He’d been cornering this green-eyed guy at the bar, this…singer. Ordering drinks no less! Myranda stares at the screen and loathes that arrogant smile that the singer has, his body language telling its own tale of believing it’s better than everyone else.

His body language wasn’t saying the same thing when he disappeared upstairs with Ramsay last night.

“You don’t know? That’s Theon Greyjoy. He’s a fucking _dream_.”

Just as the bartender speaks Theon Greyjoy’s name, The Dungeon Master strolls into the room, laying a cold look across them all. The girls collectively flinch. “Ladies,” Ramsay says darkly, “We open in five minutes. Are you expecting me to man all three bars? What. Are. You. Doing. Down. Here. Still?”

At that moment, the commentator on the television exclaims loudly, “He’s put down his guitar…oh…oh he’s leaping into the pit! What an animal!”

The girls (excluding Myranda, of course) break out in shocked laughter, watching Theon Greyjoy jump into a mob of women, right off the stage. There are screams as he disappears in the mob briefly, women clawing and climbing all over him, some tonguing his ear and neck.

The commentator continues narrating the spectacle, “Here comes security, battling their way in…how are they going to extract him from that? Wow. Those women, they’re something else.”

The band continues playing, even as their lead singer is hauled back to the stage by security, his shirt torn off. Red lines of blood are on his chest from the nails of some groupie. He smiles widely and gets back to the microphone, gyrating his hips slowly to the beat.

He has a few red marks on him that Myranda knows didn’t come from his ridiculous stunt…not that anyone in the crowd would know what Theon Greyjoy gets up to in his spare time. She’s surprised he hasn’t been completely outed at the _Dreadfort_. Though, he’s a local, so perhaps it isn’t so shocking to see him around the North.

Myranda watches as Ramsay’s eyes flicker over the display, his expression schooled in neutral. There is a subtle clench to his jaw.

“Turn this off,” he says lowly. “And get to work. I need this place shut down by 2am sharp tonight. My father has business later.”

With that said, the Dungeon Master turns on his heel and strides out, shoulders stiff.

One of the girls rolls her eyes dramatically. “What’s wrong with him?”

“What _isn’t_ wrong with him, is the better question,” another whispers.

Myranda stares after Ramsay, squeezing into her leather corset. She tells herself she won’t be worried about this strange turn of events. But. _But_.

This Theon Greyjoy has soul devouring sea-green eyes and the Dungeon Master left his torture chamber just to play with him last night.

Theon’s not even his type and he did it anyway.

It can’t mean anything.


	7. The Downward Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon is out on a mini-tour…he is not a good boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Game of Thrones or the characters, all belong to George R. R. Martin.

_If there’s a downside to cocaine, it’s that it never lasts long enough,_ Theon thinks as he slinks off the stage, nearly forcing his legs to move forward.

His legs feel like lead weights are attached to them, every step feeling like a walk through quicksand.

Despite the wreckage that is Theon, Jon is typing away on his phone, looking for local bars to hit for the night. For once, Theon doesn’t even feel like joining in on the festivities. But…he will if asked. Of course, can’t let it be said that Theon Greyjoy is a killjoy.

Jon looks him over dubiously. “You really should stay in the bus, man. I think you might just die if you party any more this weekend.”

Gendry laughs, clapping an arm around Theon’s back. The other man dwarfs him and Theon cringes when Gendry’s sweat touches his bare chest. He never got that shirt back from the women in the pit. “Get off me, you giant oaf,” Theon says without heat.

As always, it’s Robb who saves him. White Knight Robb. Theon nearly rolls his eyes at his own thoughts. “I’m going back to the bus with Theon. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Stark.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, you do.”

Robb pulls him back towards their large tour bus, provided by Littlefinger’s company. They pile in and walk to the back room of the large bus, where the bed is. Robb doesn’t even have a chance to throw Theon down on it; Theon simply collapses like a wilting plant.

The bed moves slightly as Robb climbs on beside Theon, sighing loudly, like all the troubles of the world are on his shoulders. Robb is like that. It’s like everyone’s bad luck is his personal quest, that he needs to fix all the fucking bad around him.

Theon has always liked and hated that about Robb. He’s a good guy with a sharp edge, a loyal wolf who would attack for those he considers his family and friends. They lie in silence together, Theon with his eyes closed and Robb staring at the ceiling.

They can hear people laughing and yelling somewhere outside, but outside the bus is another world at the moment.

“I’m worried about you,” Robb says finally, softly.

Barely a whisper in the dark.

Theon presses his face into the sheets and groans before rolling over onto his back. His side presses against Robb’s as they both stare upward. “You’re always worried about me. That’s your job.”

“I don’t want it to be my job, Theon. I wish you had a bit more self-preservation built in you. But you don’t and I don’t know why.”

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Theon mutters, “I’m sorry about the coke. Littlefinger-”

Robb shifts onto his side, props himself up on his elbow so that he can look down at Theon. There is a twist to his mouth, one of displeasure, irritation, Theon isn’t quite sure which. “It isn’t about the coke, Theon. And I know Littlefinger is a fucking enabler. He likes to push and push you just to see how you twist and turn. I. Fucking. Know. It.”

Exhaustion waits in the wings for Theon, trying to pull him under into sleep. He feels like he’s been awake for twenty-four hours and now his head is starting to ache. Agony blooms behind his eyes, telling him he’s been pushing his body too far.

Secretly, he’s glad Robb forced him onto the bus; he’s not sure he would have said no to going to the bars despite the deep ache in his body.

“So, what’s the problem, Robb? Get to the point so we can stop sounding like teenage girls at a slumber party.”

Robb sits ups, rests one arm on a propped-up knee. Handsome as always, fresh and clean cut. He looks at ease, but Theon knows he isn’t. “What are you into right now, Theon? I can always recognize when you start a new self-destructive cycle. You fall off the grid, you write new songs that actually mean something, and you look like hell. And don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

A broken laugh creeps out from Theon’s lips. He shifts his gaze to look at Robb, hates the intensity in those blue eyes. Robb always knows; he knows Theon too well. Perhaps he knows Theon better than Theon knows himself.

“You wouldn’t understand.” _Robb really wouldn’t._

“Try me.”

“I don’t fucking want to!”

“Too bad!” Robb snarls back. He looks down at Theon’s bare chest pointedly, at the bruising, not the scratches. “I know those marks didn’t come from that ridiculous sky dive into the pit tonight. I know Littlefinger has a hand in the underground cage fighting rings…”

_He would jump to that conclusion, wouldn’t he?_

“Robb, I can promise you this, if nothing else; I am not cage fighting. I would literally be dead by now,” Theon drawls without any amusement.

The moon through the window is the only light in the bus and it shines behind Robb as he leans over Theon. His face is a dark silhouette briefly. Robb’s voice softens. “Why can’t you tell me? I’m your best friend.”

_You’re my only friend,_ Theon thinks sadly, because it’s true. No one else sees beyond the mask that Theon puts on every day. Perhaps no one wants to see beyond it, but Robb does.

Inhaling sharply, Theon says instead, “I saw my sister two months ago.”

Robb stiffens. Waits for Theon to continue.

Shifting in discomfort, hating the way he feels raw as he speaks, Theon speaks lowly. “I was at the docks in the Riverlands. I was just…looking at the sea. Remembering. I ran into her in one of the dive bars. She was happy to see me, but…she told me I still have no place at home.”

“…Theon…”

Sniffing, rubbing his nose, Theon continues forward. “She looked good. Father had given her part of the shipping company to run. I didn’t like how that made me feel. Knowing that she never had to do anything to stay in his good graces, but I made one wrong move that he didn’t like and I became dead to him.”

“Your father is a drunken asshole. You’ve always had a place with us. You don’t need him; how many times have I had to tell you this?”

“You don’t get it,” Theon snaps. “You don’t know what it is like to know your own father wishes you had died instead of his favorite sons. I had nothing to do with it, nothing at all, but he hates that I’m the one he has left. I’m nothing but an inconvenience with the name Greyjoy.”

Theon’s stomach is ill, his chest tight. He’d been doing so well. He’d been on a good path. But he couldn’t help going back to the sea and look where it had gotten him. Every horrible memory, every feeling of inadequacy had come rolling back the minute his sister had sat down beside him in the bar, the scent of salt in her hair.

_“You know I love you, little brother. You know this, right?”_

_He knows she does. He loves her, in his own distant way. But it isn’t her love he wants._

_Theon wants his father to look at him with something other than disgust, wants to feel him embrace him because he’s his son. But he never has and Theon wants a place to fit. A sister’s love is no replacement for the love of a father. He’s never been wanted._

“My father treated you as a son. You know he did. My father was an honorable man,” Robb says, breaking through Theon’s lapse into his memories.

_But your father wasn’t mine._ “I just want to sleep, Robb.”

Robb presses his back against Theon’s as they sink into the pillows. His warmth is a small comfort, but the emptiness inside of Theon yawns like an open abyss.  
  
  


* * *

 

The Sunday night show is more of the same, though they’ve traveled two hours to The Vale. The night of rest did Theon some good and thankfully, Littlefinger didn’t come at him with more ‘motivation’. Theon isn’t sure he would have been able to say no and he really doesn’t need to pick up that old bad habit again.

The show itself goes well and it appears that the two new songs they have been playing have gone over astoundingly well.

The online reviews have been gushing about Theon’s return to his lyrical roots, writing about soul crushing desperation, loneliness, and need. The praise has given him a morale boost, and yet a strange haze of depression hangs over him like a cloud.

The whole band goes out that night, prowling through the hazardous streets in The Vale. It’s hazardous because of the terrain, of course, so drunks must always stay somewhat vigilant.

Somewhere along their bar hopping, Theon finds a girl and goes into a bathroom stall with her. She looks at him like she’s in awe, but she asks him questions that make him feel like he’s not even human, not in her eyes. She sees him as this star, this icon whose only purpose in life is to entertain the masses. Theon doesn’t exist outside of the band, what he cares about isn’t relevant, and neither are his feelings.

He’s used to this. Sometimes, this is even alright. Right now though, with irritation and a hole in his chest where his heart used to be, Theon tells her to bite him until it hurts, tells her to wrap her hands around his neck as he fucks her up against the dirty stall wall.

She does as she is told, not because she wants to, but because he told her to.  

When he finishes, he leaves her gasping against the stall, a confused air hovering about her drunken gaze. He leaves and feels empty inside, but smiles when Gendry winks at him when Gendry sees him leaving the ladies restroom.

“Theon Greyjoy strikes again, eh?” Gendry wiggles his eyebrows. “Save some girls for the rest of the poor sods in this dive bar.”

 

* * *

 

After Monday’s show, he finds a girl with dark hair and light eyes. She takes him back to her place, a lightness to her step.

_Look at her, she’s so fucking proud of herself,_ Theon thinks nastily. _Want a fucking prize, sweetheart? Everyone knows I’m easy._

Theon lies on his back, lets her do all the work. That’s what he likes, giving away the illusion of control. She rides and rides, but nothing pushes him over the edge. “Maybe you’re too drunk,” she giggles at him. “Attack of the whiskey-dick, huh? Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

_Ugh. Not again,_ Theon thinks with a touch of hysteria, because this problem is becoming too close to habit. He’s well aware that what he drank is not the issue.

Frowning in frustration, Theon stretches over the side of the bed to grab his pants and hands her what he is looking for. She stares down at his belt with her brow furrowed. “Uh…what do you want me to do with this, exactly?”

Theon thought it was obvious. Before he can censor himself, he asks, “Are you an idiot?”

Her expression morphs quickly into ‘offended bitch’, but he doesn’t give her much time to think it through. He’s getting off tonight and she’s going nowhere until he does. He shows her what he’s looking for her to do and wraps the belt around his neck.

The clink of the buckle is ominous in the silent room. The young woman gives him a look filled of apprehension. Her eyes are telling him she doesn’t want to do this, that she’s hoping he’s joking or something. Rolling his eyes, Theon places the leather end in her hand and says, “Well, what are you waiting for? I thought you wanted to fuck a rock star?”

With a look of vague disgust (at him or herself, Theon isn’t sure), she pulls the leather tight until Theon finally starts losing air. She experiments with it hesitantly, but starts rolling her hips again, the dual sensations of pressure building the heat in Theon’s groin once more.

He’s always been able to hold his breath rather long, but the strangulation adds another layer of fear and arousal to it, spiking his flight and fight instincts.

Eventually, she gets more into her own pleasure, riding his cock harder, faster. Theon can barely breathe and that’s what he chases, the end of air and the screaming in his lungs, begging for relief. Begging to die and climax at the same time.

He’s so close, he’s nearly there, his balls are aching and his chest is on fire…

Suddenly, the pressure is gone and air floods his lungs once more, knocking Theon off course again. He blinks the stars from his eyes. Black and white flashes are in his vision before he can focus on the girl above him.

The leather belt is loose in her grip. “Are you alright?” She asks him, pale eyes filled with concern.

Anger, ridiculous fury fills Theon’s chest like an exploding balloon. Of course she would stop. “Why did you fucking stop? Did I tell you to stop?”

“You were starting to change color! I didn’t want to kill you!”

“That’s the point!” He flips them over and drives his hips forward, angling hers sharply so that her eyes roll in her head slightly.

Her fucks her hard against the headboard and tells her once again to pull on the damn belt and not to let go. She complies with anger and lust in her eyes.

When he climaxes, he imagines grey eyes that belong to someone who is not the girl below him.

The realization stuns him for a moment and he blinks his eyes madly, as if it will erase the image that came to him. As if it will erase the fact that he thought of someone else at all. For an awkward moment, they sit there panting, sweating. Theon leaves her body, touches his neck absently. She won’t look him in the eye.

_Strong hands around his throat, squeezing so hard and Theon can’t stop him, couldn’t stop him even if he wanted to. Bolton will squeeze until Theon dies or until Bolton says otherwise._

“I…I gotta go,” Theon gasps, heart hammering in his chest.

He stumbles from the bed, legs shaking, a gruesome feeling in his belly.

“You’re fucked up, you know that?” The girl shouts after him, voice quivering.

Theon can hear her sob from down the hall as he races to the stairs.

 

* * *

  


Theon doesn’t remember what happens after the Tuesday night show.

But he feels like hell the next morning. Robb looks about the same, so it couldn’t have been too devious. Robb rolls over in the bed they are sharing, his leg absently hooking over Theon’s. With a groan, Robb opens his eyes, blinks down at Theon is surprise.

“Hi,” Theon croaks.

Robb frowns in pain and disengages from Theon with a mumbled apology.

“I think we were roofied last night. I’m sure of it,” Robb says, gagging into the garbage can beside the hotel bed. “That club was trash.”

Theon dry heaves at the sound of Robb being violently sick. “I can see someone roofying you but, why would they roofie me? It’s not like I’ll put up a fight.”

Robb cackles into garbage before he moans again, sounding like death warmed over.  
  


* * *

 

On Wednesday night, Gendry pulls Theon aside to smoke outside the bar they are currently occupying in The Twins.

Theon looks at the cigarette dubiously. “Did you roll this yourself or did you have a child do it? Looks awful.”

Gendry lights it for Theon as Theon puts it in his mouth. The smell of reefer permeates the air as Theon exhales slowly, feeling the burn in his lungs from holding it in so long.

After two more puffs, Gendry takes the joint and sags against the brick wall, eyeing Theon with lazy blue eyes. “Are you complaining?”

“I’m always complaining,” Theon replies when the joint finds its home in his mouth again.

They smoke together peacefully, letting the high slowly take them in. Theon has never been a fan of weed; never did much for him anyway unless he was already three sheets to the wind. To break the silence, Theon asks, “How are things going with Arya? You two still boning on the reg?”

Gendry laughs, his strong face pleased. “I think I’m going to propose to her. Don’t tell Jon or Robb, they’d probably kill me.”

Theon chokes in the middle of his next inhale. “What? Marriage? What sort of old man are you? Seems like a waste…of your…manliness.”

Grinning stupidly, Gendry shrugs his large shoulders. “I like you when you’re smoking weed, you’re far more mellow. Not such an asshole. But I love her. She’s the only one who catches my interest. That has to count for something. Plus, she’s tough as nails. She’s tougher than me.”

None of this is truly surprising to Theon; he finds Gendry to be a complete sasquatch. “That’s not hard, you’re like a giant teddy bear.”

“Well, once you get past your groupie phase, I’m sure you’ll see what I mean,” Gendry says mildly, examining the joint.

Going behind one of the dumpsters, Theon unzips his jeans and pisses against the brick. He groans loudly in relief. “I’ve been doing this band thing for years, Gendry. Pretty sure it’s not a phase.”

Stomping out the joint, they go back into the bar to gather up Jon and Robb before heading back to the bus. Robb is chatting up a pretty girl, a pretty girl who is clearly drunk and pawing at him. Theon smiles wanly. Robb turns the girl down, pushes her seeking hands away gently, like he’s dealing with a flower and not a ravenous groupie.

As they leave, taking a taxi back to the bus, Theon rolls his eyes through his slow haze at Robb. “White Knight Robb strikes again, eh?”

Robb narrows his eyes at him and Theon already knows what is going to come out of his mouth. “She was drunk. Too drunk.”

“God forbid they be drunk,” Theon mutters, scoffing.

Let it not be said that Theon is a paramount example of morality.

“I prefer girls who aren’t out of their minds with alcohol, sue me,” Robb snaps, his hot temper peeking through in his blue eyes.

As they halt at a stoplight, Theon sees a girl standing at the corner, sharp in a black suit, red blouse. She’s tipsy, clearly leaving a work happy hour a bit late. Her hair is like night and her eyes are pale and Theon can’t help but think of someone else.

He looks down at his phone, angles it so no one can see the background picture of Theon sitting like a dog between another man’s legs. Blindfolded, to boot. He has _his_ number in his phone, though he’s never put his name to it. Theon wonders what would happen if he called. Crazy as it is, he wants to call Bolton.

Theon wants to hear that voice that promises blood and terror, the edge of nothing. The idea of unwilling submission, because Theon doesn’t _like_ submitting; he likes being _forced_ to.

When they get back to the bus, Theon darts into the small, makeshift backroom where the bed is, shutting the door behind him. Robb and Jon sprawl on the couches in the main area, Gendry smoking more reefer outside the bus. Littlefinger must still be out, but when he returns they will most likely head off to a hotel for the remainder of the night.

Sitting on the bed, Theon stares down at the ominous number on his cell. Sweat trickles down his back as his thumb hovers above the dial button. _Just press it. You know you want to._

_Don’t call him you prat._

_Call him._

The dialing begins, loudly filling Theon’s ears in time with his heartbeat.

The Dungeon Master picks up on the sixth ring, as if he had been prepared to let it go straight to voicemail. “Bolton,” he answers, voice low and smooth.

Inconceivably, Theon’s spine seems to straighten of its own accord. For a minute, he figures this is a terrible idea, he always has terrible ideas. His mind blanks, he doesn’t really have a plan behind this call…he just wanted to…he doesn’t know what he wanted.

He settles on the first thing that pops into his lethargic mind. “Was it supposed to be a joke, taking that picture of me?” Theon asks rudely

There is silence, like Bolton is shocked that Theon called. Or irritated, maybe he’s pissed. Finally, he responds, an edge to his voice. “Didn’t you like it?”

Theon inhales sharply, a flush coming to his cheeks. He did like it, secretly. “That’s not the point,” he says lamely.

“You’re a slow learner. You need help remembering things. Figured that would help you remember who you are and who you’re _not_ when you’re with _me_.”

There’s something about the way Bolton speaks and it makes Theon feel like a rebuked child. He’s humiliated that he enjoys it. _I must be fucking broken inside. Thanks, Dad._

Torn between anger and indignity, Theon stares down at his hands, sees how they shake. His body remembers the way this man makes him feel, makes him beg because he knows Ramsay Bolton has no brakes. He'd given all of his agency to Bolton on Friday night and the complete loss of control had been exhilarating. Terrifying. “That’s the thing with you. All these girls, these groupies...it doesn't work. They do what I ask. They can choke me out, hit me…but it’s like being with a ghost of the real thing. It’s real with you.”

A long pause, then the sound of a blade being sharpened. A soft sound of derision sounds low in Bolton’s throat. “Are you high?”

_Yes._ “I thought I’d just fucking inform you. None of them are like you.”

“Hn. Most certainly not.” An ugly edge creeps into Bolton's tone despite the calmness of his voice. 

“When can I see you again?” Great, now Theon sounds needy.

“When I feel like it.” A scream echoes in the background and Theon is distantly disturbed. And yet. And _yet_. He feels a yearning, wants to be the one there instead.

“You’re on the phone talking to me while…doing that?” Theon asks incredulously.

_ “Please, no! Stop it! I’m done, I’m-”  _ the female voice breaks off into a horrible, serial killer movie scream in Theon’s earpiece.

The scream gets louder, then the begging starts in earnest. Bolton hums his response into the receiver. Distracted.

Irritated for some reason, Theon complains childishly, “Are you paying attention to me?”

The other man gives him a bark of a laugh and it runs down Theon’s spine like an icy blade. “I am. What do you want?”

“I already told you,” Theon grouches.

_I fucking sound like a whiny bitch,_ Theon thinks with dismay. _I never do this sort of shit. Fucking hell. Must be the weed._

Has to be the weed. Fucking sasquatch Gendry.

“You’re on the road this week. Aren’t your shows going well?” The tone is mocking and the hair prickles on Theon’s neck.

It always catches him by surprise when he hears Bolton say something…personal about Theon. Like he knows him. Theon never told him anything about himself, never even fucking told Bolton his _name_ and yet he knew he was a Greyjoy.

Now he even knows that Theon is in the Drowned Wolves. Theon doesn’t know if he should be flattered or worried. Perhaps both.

Despite his better judgement, Theon finds himself saying, “I come home tomorrow. Figured I’d be around sometime this weekend.”

_You say this so nonchalantly, like you aren’t dying to be there with him right now,_ Theon thinks darkly.

There is a brief pause as Bolton absorbs Theon’s words, a quiet sobbing in the background from whatever poor girl is under his blade. For a minute, Theon considers he’s said too much, showed too much of what he wants. He’s opened himself up for injury here. He's showed too many cards in his hand.

_He already knows you’re thinking of him and what he can do to you; you fucking called him you idiot,_ Theon mentally curses.

“Miss me that much?” The words are all teeth and gravel.

_A bloodcurdling wail pierces Theon’s ear, as if the girl being worked on is right beside him. He flinches, unprepared for the voracity of the cry._

Something ugly curls in Theon’s chest. “Maybe I need a tune up, maybe you didn’t leave a lasting impression Friday night. Perhaps I’ve fucking forgotten _my place_ _already.”_

Theon hears Ramsay inhale sharply, preparing to reply when Robb interrupts them loudly.

“Hey,” Robb shouts from the main area of the bus. “Who are you talking to in there? No bitches on the bus, Theon! We have rules and this is a democracy!”

A cold snort echoes in Theon’s ear. “Is that Robb Stark?” Ramsay asks, a strange bite in his tone.

“Uh…yes?” _That matters why?_

The phone goes dead and Theon pulls it away from his ear to stare at it blankly. “Asshole,” he mutters.

Robb opens the door and looks at him with skeptical eyes. “Are you hiding a girl under the bed? We are literally going to the hotel now.”

Gendry groans loudly from behind him, high as a kite. “I’m soooo hungry. I just want to go home.”

Theon puts his phone away and rolls his eyes at Robb. “You are more than welcome to check under the bed, Dad, but I’m totally alone.”  
  


* * *

 

_That night, when Theon dreams, he finds himself in Pyke with his father._

_“Boy, get over here,” Balon rasps, cool eyes falling on his youngest._

_Theon strolls over, absently touching his hair, making sure his new watch is facing the right way. He wants to make an impression, he always has._

_His father’s eyes rove over him with relative disdain and Theon feels like sinking into a pit of nothingness immediately. Balon gestures to his clothes, scoffing. “What’s all this then?”_

_Keeping keen eye contact, Theon replies, “I…uh…bought some new stuff. No big deal. It’s to help make a better impression at work-”_

_“You’ve been hanging out with those Stark boys far too much. It’s starting to show,” Balon sneers down at him._

_Theon rubs at the crook of his arm anxiously. His father has never liked the Stark’s, something to do with soured business ventures, but Theon doesn’t care about any of that. “Mr. Stark was just trying to help give me some advice. He wants me to be successful-”_

_These are not the right words to say. Not to Balon Greyjoy. He backhands Theon roughly and the memory bleeds red fleetingly._

_“Is Ned Stark your father?!” The shout rattles Theon’s ears and he winces._

_For a moment, Theon doesn’t know what to say. His mouth moves, but no words come out. A sense of loss, loss of control washes over him, the image of the dream jerking wildly in contrast. Theon wants to look away from this memory._

_“What, nothing to say, boy? You’re pathetic. Do you think that dressing up all nice is going to make you one of them? They look down on you! Poor Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy. He’s no good at anything, may as well dress him up like the court jester!”_

_The words sting, cut deep like a blade. The disgust and revulsion on Balon’s face has always confused Theon, because he simply can’t understand_ why _. What was so wrong with Theon that his father couldn’t love him?_

_“All the money in the world won’t make you a Stark, boy. I curse the day that your brothers left this world, leaving me with you for a son,” Balon grabs the bottle of vodka that is beside him on the table, drinking straight from it._

_He’s been drinking from the bottle so much that as of late, Theon doesn’t think he’s seen him without one. Rodrik & Maron’s funerals had changed him. Theon sniffs, rubs his nose and looks away. He blinks his eyes in an effort to keep tears from welling up, because it hurts. It always hurts. Everything hurts._

_Balon’s eyes are bloodshot. He sinks into his chair, bottle in hand. “You’re no good, boy. You’re weak.”_

_The words burn through Theon body, the memory a physical pain. He wants to drown, oh how he wants to drown. Let the sea take him where he can float eternally, just under the surface. In the reflected light, where all is calm and all is beautiful._

_He wants to be there until water fills his lungs and he becomes lost at sea._

_Then, instead of two, there would be three Greyjoy's at the bottom of the ocean, never to return again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had a LOT of Theon being a womanizer. Like the womanizer to end them all. But. We get to have some Bolton fun next chapter, I promise XD
> 
> We needed Theon to go off the rails a bit, I swear.


	8. Crawl Until You Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art of getting what you want and an outcome you need.
> 
> Or: Theon drinks his coffee black and Ramsay doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. All belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
>  **AN:** Well. This chapter is huge. 7000 words of pure fun, I swear. Enjoy yourselves, because I had fun writing this one.

On Thursday night, the tour bus hauls four exhausted rockers home. The silence on the bus is strangely deafening, everyone done with human interaction after nearly a full week on the road. When they finally get back to base, all the guys deboard and trudge home their separate ways. 

“Go home,” Littlefinger demands, pointing his finger at Theon like he would a naughty son. As if he’s worried that Theon will immediately find a party to crash upon leaving the bus. Probably more worried that someone will find Theon dead in some back alley, OD’d or some shit. What bad press that would be, eh? “Sleep, Theon. You’ve partied all week. Take a break. I promise, you will feel better if you recharge, but you need to give your body a chance to do it naturally.”

 _As if this chode isn’t the one who gave me drugs to keep me going!_ Theon rolls his eyes in disbelief. “Thank you, oh wise drug dispenser,” Theon mutters sarcastically.

He climbs into Robb’s car and slouches into the passenger seat like a lump of trash. Robb drives in near silence, which is fine; they are both tired. They’ve been together for six days now and there really isn’t anything left to talk about. It is the comfortable silence of two close friends who don’t need to speak to be happy.

Not that Theon is every truly happy, but he plays a good game at it. He’s spent a good portion of his life being jealous of Robb and the other half just spent being so glad that Robb even wants him for a friend. It’s a hard line to walk, but Theon does it every day.

When Robb pulls up in front of Theon’s apartment, he puts the Cadillac in park and wraps an arm around Theon in a half hug. Theon smiles tiredly at the familiar scent of Robb’s Light Blue cologne, now faint after hours of travel. The scent reminds Theon of sunshine and beaches, happier days. “Goodnight, Theon. See you sometime next week maybe?”

Theon nods, rests his forehead on Robb’s shoulder briefly. “Yeah. Next week. I’ve sick of seeing your red hair for the moment.”

“Oh, is that right? Well, I’m sick of seeing your naked ass working over assorted drunk groupies.”

They bump fists and smile. “Get home safe. Text me when you do,” Theon says. He leaves the car and walks into his building, ridiculously glad to be home finally.

The moment he walks in the door of his apartment, he breathes in the silence and darkness, letting the aura of home wash over him. Dumping his gear on the floor and kicking off his sneakers haphazardly, Theon locks the door and stumbles to his bedroom like a drunken sailor. The fatigue is pulling him down down down and he’s a willing victim.

He barely gets his pants off before he hits the sheets. When his head touches the pillow, he’s out like a light.

_He knows he’s dreaming, but the dream is certainly fucked up; more so than usual._

_It’s one of those warm, languid dreams. A sex dream that has no face, just a body and sensation. There’s a heat in his groin that never seems to get fulfilled, just out of reach, yet building and building. Nearly unbearable. His climax is the top of a mountain peak, just in the distance, one he wants to fall off of in a blaze of release._

_In the comfortable haze, his body is against another’s. The slow, dreamlike rhythm unhurried. Climax is just out of reach, but the sharp edge is excruciating, a coil that sings in his belly. It’s fucking perfect, and then it isn’t._

_A painfully white smirk comes into focus and for a moment it’s all Theon sees. Familiar, sharp canines. Then, a full face comes into being. Artic, hellfire eyes stare up at him. “Is this really how you think this will go?”_

_The tone tells Theon that if so, Theon thought_ wrong _. The dream turns cold and Theon doesn’t want to be asleep anymore, doesn’t want to be in this dream._

_Suddenly, it feels like the world has fallen out from under him and Theon tumbles into darkness. All around him is that unkind laugh, echoing in his skull. “You should pay more attention. Didn’t I tell you I’d never fuck you when we met?”_

Theon wakes slowly, sweat soaking the shirt on his chest. He’s got a boner to end all boners and lust still slugs through his veins languidly with the morning sun. _“_ Well, that was gross,” Theon mumbles into his pillow, sleep seeping from his limbs.

He pushes the dream from his thoughts and already it fades from memory.

It’s nice being in his own bed though, the familiar mix of soft and firm. The fan spinning above. Theon sighs and rubs the sleep from his eyes as he turns over onto his back. For once, he doesn’t feel like he’s been run over by a semi. It’s nice to not feel like roadkill, run over repeatedly with his ribs hanging out in gloriously gory fashion.

 _Coffee,_ his mind tells him tiredly, _I could use some coffee right about now._

With a long sigh and a vague grope at his own dick, Theon stumbles over to the coffee maker and empties out the old grinds, then fills it with water. It’s when he opens his coffee cannister that he curses loudly.

“Mother..fuck…how did I miss this?” His coffee cannister is empty and Theon thinks he just might die.

Nothing is worse than getting your coffee maker ready and finding out you have no fucking coffee to brew in it. Though Theon’s body feels better than it has in days, he desperately needs a caffeine bump. He rarely goes a morning without coffee and a morning without coffee isn’t much of a morning at all in his opinion.

And, this is because cocaine is out of the question, absolutely. ‘No lines before noon’, Theon always liked to say when it had been a worse habit.

He calls a cab and has it take him to where his car has been sitting for the past few days, ever since he left it when he was last at the _Dreadfort Nightclub_. There are two parking ticket sitting on the windshield and Theon rolls his eyes, tearing them up. “Po-Po think they can ticket me, think again! Not this morning, not before my fucking coffee. Not a chance,” Theon mutters through gritted teeth.

Getting in his car, he drives over to his favorite coffee place in the downtown, _The_ _Dire Café._ As he pulls into a parking spot, he notices a rather ritzy sports car parked in front of the entrance. _Now that,_ Theon thinks with a slight air of grouch, _is a nice fucking car._

There are things that are known in this world and one of them is this; socializing with Theon before coffee is simply not done.

The car isn’t a type he recognizes, so he figures he can stare it down when he walks to the door of the café, being that the prat that owns the beautiful machine has parked it right up front. _Look at that asshat, he straddled the line so no one can park next to him. Not that I blame him,_ Theon thinks, tilting his rearview mirror to get a sneak look in.

He finds it distinctly embarrassing when people rubberneck at the sight of a nice car; Theon prefers to look uninterested even if he is mentally drooling.

_Must. Get. Coffee._

Propelled by bodily needs, Theon steps out of his car and strides slowly towards the front of _The_ _Dire Café_ , subtly eye-slobbering all over the exotic car. He squints at the car make sigil, and thinks _Acura of some sort? I don’t recognize the model though._

He can’t help but look at the car, it’s stunning, it’s beautiful, sleek and dangerous looking. It’s a dark color that isn’t quite black and isn’t quite grey, but something metallic. Eye-catching. As Theon is thinking these words, something nags at the back of his mind, something about someone driving a ridiculously awesome, swanky car.

_Could it be? No effing way._

Theon slowly walks past the driver’s side and can’t help but crane his head to see who is inside. The window is rolled down and a familiar shock of black hair comes into view. The driver is inside, resting their head on the steering wheel and for a moment Theon is frozen in his stride, staring into the car with wide eyes, a deer in headlights and about to be hit.

There are two things that Theon knows instantly; the driver is oblivious to the fact that Theon is standing beside them and the other is that the driver is Ramsay Bolton. The car is clearly parked and shut off, but for whatever reason the bastard seems to have lost the motivation to get out of the car and make it through the front door of the café.

Thoughts race madly through Theon’s sluggishly tired mind. Does he dare speak to him? Or does he just slink by quickly, unnoticed? Does he really want to call attention to himself at all? Damn, that car is fine though. Before he can stop himself, Theon finds himself opening his big mouth.

“Hey, do you want a coffee or are you just going to sit here looking like a bitch?” Theon sounds cockier than he feels.

Ramsay Bolton lifts his head off the steering wheel with a murderous expression in his pale eyes. Theon steps back, nervous, but then Bolton blinks the look away, recognizing Theon with an arduous sigh of exasperation. An annoyed expression twists his face.

There are dark circles under Bolton’s eyes and his gaze is slightly bloodshot. Theon shifts his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. “You…ah…you don’t look so good.”

Bolton’s nose crinkles a little as his lip curls into an ill-natured sneer. “How I look is none of your business, Greyjoy.”

Despite the harshness of the tone, Theon can hear the blatant exhaustion underneath it. Someone else clearly shouldn’t socialize before coffee as well, it seems. Aw, they have something in common! “Well. I’m going inside to drink some coffee. You can fucking join me or you can sit here like some pervert. I have no shits to give, Bolton.”

Winter storm eyes flash hazardously, square jaw clenching.

 _You should have asked about the car, you dolt,_ Theon mentally scolds. _But noooo, you insult him and then invite him out to coffee. Smart._

With that, Theon pivots and continues into the coffee shop, not waiting to see if Bolton follows.

The shop is a lovely open space, airy and light with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries. The stone work is beautifully done and a granite fireplace adorns the middle of the room, always burning in the winter time, but asleep for the current season. Theon steps up to the counter and starts his order for a plain black coffee, large. As he looks over the pastries, someone comes to stand beside him in front of the cashier.

“This is all on my bill. In addition to what he’s having, I’ll have a large macchiato with whole milk, extra syrup, caramel, cinnamon, and whipped cream. Three shots extra of espresso. Add some sugar too. Plus, I’ll have, uh, the chocolate bread.”

Theon turns his head slightly to see Ramsay Bolton, who stands there paying for their apparently combined order. “That’s absolutely foul,” Theon says in horror, speaking of the other man’s order.

Who ruins coffee that way? Pale eyes give him a side-eyed glance and nothing more. “The proper response is to say ‘thanks’, you know, when someone buys you something,” Bolton says dryly. “Have you forgotten your manners?”

Grinning, Theon whispers, “Yes, _Sir_ ,” before walking to go grab them a table by the window, somewhere in the morning sunlight.

Bolton stiffens at his words, but remains waiting for the order to come out. He looks perfectly in place, dark shirt pulling across his shoulders, iconic striped adidas shoes on his feet as he stands there with his hip cocked to the side. He’s got veins in his forearms, visible with is hand on his hip, an athletic build with slight bulk. He looks like any normal guy, but Theon knows he’s anything but.

When he joins Theon at the table with their steaming coffee and pastries, Theon feels like he’s in an alternate universe of some sort. Despite the exhausted look on Bolton’s face, he looks like he just rolled out of the shower and smells like it too, though his typical cologne is absent. His plain black shirt hugs his frame and a black steel watch glitters on his wrist, catching Theon’s eye. He’s got strong wrists, Theon notes distantly.

Theon looks away quickly, doesn’t want to appear like he’s looking him over or anything queer like that.

“So, uh…do you…live close by?” He’s not quite sure what else to say. It’s strange to see him at Theon’s coffee place, he’s sure he’s never seen him here before.

“No. Was working late.”

The club is roughly two blocks away, not very far. Bolton’s creepy murder room slash play-room pops into Theon’s mind. He can still remember being strung up until the sun came, which ended with Roose Bolton coming across him as a result. _What else does Roose Bolton use the club for, I wonder,_ Theon ponders suspiciously. _Perhaps all those rumors of shady dealings have merit after all._

“You were…working. Until dawn? The club closes at like 2AM, man.”

Ramsay sips his coffee, looks at Theon from under lowered lashes. Dark lashes, like the midnight wings of a raven. “It does,” he says cryptically, his voice shadowy silk.

It isn’t an answer. Theon knows he shouldn’t press, but if he’s going to sit here having a coffee with the fucking Dungeon Master, he may as well talk to him. They’ve never interacted outside of the club and it feels like being in an alternate universe, one where they are just two dudes hanging out, hungover or some shit. “So, you were at the club until 7AM this morning even though it’s been closed since 2? What a try-hard you are…”

Bolton leans back in his chair, causing his shirt to pull across his chest. His expression becomes annoyed, the kind of annoyed that comes when not enough coffee has been drunk yet. “You’re awfully mouthy for so early in the morning. If I had known, I would have brought the gag in from my trunk.”

Theon can recognize another evasive answer when it hits him in the face. “Does that car of yours even have a trunk?”

“Big enough to stuff you in it.”

“Ooo. I’m shaking. But for real. What is that car? Seems pretty pricey for a club manager.”

The other man gives him a blank stare. Then he sighs with a bored air. “It’s an Acura NSX and if you think I got that car for working at the club, you’re a dolt.”

Theon has to ask. “Have I been in that car?”

Bolton blinks slowly, sips his coffee thoughtfully. “Yes.”

Snapping his fingers in dismay, Theon grimaces. “Motherfu…I can’t believe I don’t remember.”

“I can. You were completely out of it.”

_And whose fault is that?_

A small group of four people pass their table, nervous expressions crossing their face. Theon notices. “Why are people looking at us like that?”

Bolton’s laugh is sharp, bitten off. Ugly. “I didn’t think you really were this stupid. Don’t you know what I do for a living?”

Theon tongues his cheek absently. Isn’t it obvious? “You run a club.”

Stormy eyes pin him. “No, moron. That’s not…all that I do.”

Theon turns the words over in his head, but no matter how he looks at it, he can’t make sense of them. Ramsay Bolton clearly runs the _Dreadfort Nightclub._ He’s the Dungeon Master. What else could he possibly do? Isn’t one job enough? Everyone’s heard of Roose Bolton having a few shady dealings, but would he have his son running those too?

 _What happens in that fucked up room after hours, I wonder,_ Theon thinks darkly. Strangely, disgustingly, the idea of it draws him to Ramsay instead of the opposite. “Well, fuck all these prudish birds. I don’t care what your super special secret job is anyway,” Theon says airily, taking a large sip from his black coffee. It’s a bold flavor, strong on his tongue, bitter and sharp, just how Theon likes it.

Those arctic eyes consume him, studying Theon’s throat as he swallows. Theon feels the heat of that gaze, as if it touched his skin. “You should.”

Theon’s face heats under that gaze. He wonders if Bolton is thinking of the way his hands fit perfectly around Theon’s neck, wonders if he is thinking about his fingers on Theon’s tongue, pushing down his throat. Theon isn’t thinking about it. He _isn’t_.

“Have you always worked for your dad? I’ve heard he’s…ah…a busy man.” Theon picks his words carefully, doesn’t want to accidently say ‘I’ve heard your dad does shady fucking shit’.

Bolton must know exactly what is going through Theon’s head because he grins coldly, tight lipped. “My father likes to keep me busy. Says it ‘keeps me out of trouble’,” Ramsay says snidely. “Of course, this is also the same man that told me he is well aware of what my uses are…and what they are not. So, here we are.”

Theon is aware of what Ramsay is good at as well, painfully aware. He has a way about him that commands fear and respect, but Theon has never been known for respecting others all that well. Perhaps that’s the attraction; he enjoys that someone is terrifying enough to force the respect out of him the way his father always could.

He wants to be kneeling on the cold stone ground beneath the _Dreadfort Nightclub_. He wants to feel those hands around his throat, warm and sure. Theon craves the way the fear and powerlessness makes him feel. If Theon isn’t in control, he can’t be blamed for the way he is.

He doesn’t want anything to be his fault, he never has. Shouldering burdens has never been Theon’s strong suit. He can’t be blamed for the things he’s done…and the things he didn’t.

_ Blood on the deck of the boat flashes through his mind, screams and gunshots. Brain matter splashing his face, caught in his hair. Theon blinks the memory away quickly. _

“I’m waiting for you to make good on your promise to remind me of my place. I’m back from travel for the next few weeks. When are we doing this?” Theon asks, hoping for tonight.

Bolton shakes his head, already knows where Theon’s mind is at. He always seems to know and it bothers Theon immensely. “I’m not going to be there tonight. I’ve got things to do. My world does not revolve around your needs…and you are turning out to be rather needy...”

Laughing to cover up his ridiculous disappointment, Theon leans forward in his chair. “Things to do? Like, sleeping maybe?”

Ramsay rubs his eyes tiredly, the gesture so human, so normal. Theon doesn’t know what to do with himself in the presence of this version of his best nightmare. “You ask too many questions,” Bolton says flatly. “You shouldn’t ask.” His eyes drift emotionlessly around the café. He mutters more to himself than Theon, “And I shouldn’t be here with you.”

Theon wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, wants to scream at him, ‘and why the hell not?’ Instead, he says, “I don’t get what the problem is. We’re having coffee. It isn’t like we’re on a date.”

Taking an angry sip from his disgusting macchiato, Bolton says, “You wouldn’t get it, would you? You only think with your cock after all. Did the groupies on your last trip fuck the brains out of that thick skull of yours completely?”

The venom behind the words is shocking. Theon nearly leans away. “So, I can’t ask you any personal questions, but you can go off about what I do on tour? You’re a hypocrite.”

It isn’t like Theon hasn’t noticed the way he is repeatedly rebuked for anything remotely personal towards the other man. It bothers Theon, he doesn’t like the way he hits a brick wall every time. He’s torn and it’s a strange feeling; he spends a lot of time thinking about Ramsay Bolton and has spent time being an unwilling…and willing… _something_ in his dungeon. He wants to know him, just a little bit, just a shred.

The whole thing reminds Theon of way back in the day when he was in school. It was similar to when he saw someone every day for class and sort of liked hanging out with that person best during session, but never hung out with them after school. Eventually, it would become this game of trying to figure out the best way to become a better friend with the other person without seeming like he wanted to be their friend…even though he really did, Theon really wanted to actually hang out after class.

Ridiculously, this whole situation reminds Theon of that. And it’s fucking stupid.

“You need to stop trying to treat me like I’m your ‘friend’. You’re nothing to me. You’re nothing but a client I never wanted in the first place, but you keep coming back for more. And I keep taking you back against my better judgement,” Ramsay sneers, tone ugly and mocking.

It’s a game of push and pull. Bolton likes to push and Theon keeps on pulling. If he pulls hard enough, he might get what he wants eventually. Theon is nothing if not persistent.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Theon retorts, “You’re afraid. You don’t want to admit that you maybe sort of like having me as a client, aren’t you?”

“You’re delusional,” Bolton interrupts furiously, loudly, causing other patrons of the café to glance at them in shock.

Too bad Theon is on fire right now.

“No, I freaking see you, dude. You like being detached, like being this scary guy that no one knows. Makes your job that much easier on you, huh? You don’t want to admit that maybe you enjoy having me submit to you just as much as I enjoy letting you force me to my knees. You don’t want to admit it because we’re both guys.” Theon says quickly, eyes wide. “We aren’t in the club now though; you don’t have to keep the fucking sea between us. I’ll still respect you in the dungeon, after putting up a good fight of course. I won’t make it easy. You don’t like it when it’s easy.”

People give them strange looks and Theon realizes this probably isn’t the best conversation for the public, but fuck that and fuck them all.

A slight flush has begun to crawl up Ramsay’s neck, creeping up from under his black shirt. A slight dusting of red hovers over the bridge of his nose and high on his pale cheeks. Theon does not find it attractive in the slightest. He doesn’t, not at all. Because that would be totally gay of him.

Ramsay’s icy eyes stare into Theon’s with uncomfortable intensity. “The only version of ‘me’ you need to know is the one you get at the club. There, you’re mine, but out here is off-limits. I’m not your ‘pal’.” His shoulders are tense and everything about Ramsay seems closed off. Yet, despite the aggression, he doesn’t get up and leave.

_If you don’t want to know me outside of the dungeon walls, why are you sitting here, Bolton? You can leave at any time._

Theon doesn’t get it. It’s fucking with his head. He feels like he is distinctly being pushed away. “You get off on being a piece of shit, don’t you?” Theon asks, irritated. “I _allow you_ to do things to me that I probably wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. I want…I want to know who you are. Is that so fucking weird?” The question is vulnerable, painfully so, but Theon spits it out anyway.

“Stop,” Ramsay snaps suddenly, eyes going wide. “We are not doing this. You knew what we would be when I first agreed to take you on. I have half a mind to never let you in my club again.”

 _What is his deal?_ Theon thinks with surprise. “How about you drink your gross sugar milk and perk up, sunshine. You’re acting like a bitch that’s scared of commitment and I sure as hell am not committed to you.”

Red darkens Ramsay’s face and his fingers tighten around his coffee cup. His shoulders square up fiercely and Theon wonders if he is going to get laid out. “Don’t speak to me like that. You will regret it.”

_Make me regret it; I want you to. I’ll beg if you want._

Theon leans forward over the table. Tells him how it’s going to be for once. “I’m coming by tomorrow night and you’re going to do what you want with me. You can posture all you like when I’m in your dungeon, but you’re not going to sit here pretending you don’t want me there. We both know what you like. Peace, bro.” Theon makes an explosion sound, holding up a fist and opening it widely like an exploding grenade.

Boom.

Bolton sits back in his chair, huffing with irritation. Despite the front of being pissed off, Theon doesn’t miss the way his pupils dilate, the subtle way he shifts his hips in his seat.

 _Alright, I’m easy,_ Theon muses as strides towards his car. _But that motherfucker is like a girl who enjoys playing hard to get._

As he unlocks his car door, Theon is grabbed from behind and shoved face first inside. He cries out in shock, intense fight or flight instinct coming over him like an electric shock. A firm body rests against the line of his spine, holding him down with their weight as he fights like a fish out of water.

He struggles like mad, bucking, trying to get free. He swings his elbow back, tries to hit his opponent in the side, but all he hears is a mild grunt for his trouble. The hand on his head presses his face down while another hand reaches around his front to grab his balls hard.

Theon freezes.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” The familiar voice snarls in his ear, a strong hand grinding Theon’s face into the solid median. 

Theon growls against the plastic that his face is being crushed against, half in fury and half in pain. The other part of him doesn’t even want to imagine what this looks like to anyone who could walk by, seeing him being mounted like a bitch from behind halfway into his own car. The hips behind his press against him hard, keeping Theon in place, pressing him firmly into the hand gripping his crotch.

“You act like a little lost cunt that doesn’t know what he wants. But you know, don’t you?” Bolton growls, his hot breath bathing the nape of Theon’s neck. His hand squeezes Theon’s balls sharply, causing him to whine. “Or do you need daddy to show you again?”

Without warning, Theon groans. The sound isn’t one of pain and he’s never been so embarrassed. He’s already half hard. With little control, his hips stutter as sick, repulsive arousal builds in his stomach around those words coming from the mouth behind him. The words play on repeat in his mind and his psyche latches onto them, his mind becoming even more hungry and he doesn’t know why. An open maw, gaping and wanting more.

Bolton gives a short bark of laughter, barely a laugh at all. Furious, embarrassed, Theon bucks his hips back again, telling himself that he is trying to dislodge the sadist behind him, but the shocked, cut off gasp Bolton makes has Theon wanting to stay this way forever.

_I’m disgusting, what the hell is wrong with me?_

The man behind him lifts Theon’s head back slightly before slamming it back down. Theon yells out in agony, cursing Bolton out. He tastes copper on his tongue. “Don’t fucking walk away from me like that again,” Bolton says finally, sounding strangely out of breath.

With those words, he’s gone, as if he hadn’t just been making Theon a permanent fixture in his own car.

 _Blood. There was blood under his fingernails,_ Theon thinks out of nowhere as he tries to calm his racing heart. _I saw it when he was gripping his coffee. Something under the nails. It was dried blood. He must have showered at the club, but not all the blood came off._

None of these thoughts slow the pace of the organ in Theon’s chest.

* * *

 

* * *

 

On Saturday Theon goes back to the _Dreadfort Nightclub_. This time, he’s smart enough to just take a cab there. No sense in leaving his car again and having to cab back to get it the next day, after all. He spends time at home doing his hair, showering, picking out his favorite jeans.

He’s not trying, he’s not. He doesn’t need to look good for anyone, because he’s Theon Greyjoy. He’s already a fucking prize.

When he enters the club, he heads straight for the first floor bar, the one decorated with handcuffs and crops. The bartender tonight is a blonde girl with massive tits and a sweet smile. Her latex suit shines as she leans forward towards him. “What’s your pleasure, love? I was at your show last week, the one in The Twins. You were amazing.”

Theon attempts to not preen, but he doesn’t try very hard. He smiles widely, the one all the girls eat up. “Just doing my job, doll. It’s a pity I didn’t see you in the crowd. I could have found you after…”

She blushes prettily at his words. Kyra sits down next to him and rolls her eyes. “Don’t fall for it, Chastity. He’s an absolute beast. Make him a whiskey, one cube.”

_Ah, she knows me far too well._

The bartender, Chastity, sighs. “Beast or not, he sings like a broken angel. One whiskey coming up. Top or bottom shelf, love?”

“Make it a Makers.”

She winks flirtatiously and Kyra groans. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Theon rolls his shoulders, puts an arm around Kyra, nuzzling her cheek. “You know I can’t.”

“We haven’t hung out for a while; is something wrong?” She asks softly.

‘Hung out’ pretty much meant screwing in their terms. “Well, you remember what happened last time we tried that,” Theon says moderately, trying to not make a big deal of it. It wasn’t their proudest moment, after all.

Kyra nods, glancing over at one of the platforms. Silver hair shines under the dark lights. Daenerys, The Breaker of Chains, is just finishing working over some poor soul under her paddle. The man appears to be loving it though and Theon briefly wonders about her slave and how he would feel about that. Dany gently unties his hands and strokes his hair, smiling kindly with words of praise on her lips.

“I remember,” Kyra says softly. She orders two glasses of wine and Theon nearly asks who the other is meant for when Dany makes her way over to them after setting loose the man she had been working with.

“Look who’s back,” Dany says with a demure look on her face, taking the wine from Kyra with the air of a queen. “This seems to be a habit for you and I really don’t get why.”

Theon remembers faintly that she had been there the last time he had been with Bolton. She hadn’t liked how he’d been treated. She had argued on his behalf, which he finds sort of endearing. But. Theon doesn’t need saving. “It isn’t a crime to come back here is it? I mean, I’m choosing to be here after all.”

“You haven’t signed any contracts with him, have you?” The Breaker of Balls asks curiously.

 _Contracts?_ “Ah. No. Not even sure what that is,” Theon says with confusion.

She takes a coy sip of her wine. “Hm. Not committed then. I assumed you were, but I guess that’s not his style. I mean, that she-bitch that’s been after him forever hasn’t even gotten one out of him.”

Kyra laughs nastily. “Myranda really is a piece of work. Never met a more obnoxious painslut. Can’t be too fun for a sadist to deal with someone who enjoys everything. Maybe that’s why he’s been keeping her at arm’s length as of late.”

Dany’s eyes cut over to Theon briefly. “Among other things, I’m sure.”

Theon slouches further into his bar chair, gulping his whiskey. He enjoys the warm burn down his throat, the comfortable heat in his belly. “I’m lost, ladies. What are we talking about?”

Dany and Kyra give him pitying looks and it’s maddening.

The silver haired Dominatrix opens her mouth to speak again when yet another woman joins their merry bunch. Theon vaguely recognizes her, the dark brown hair and distinctly unfriendly blue eyes. She’s wearing a strappy body suit with clamps on her nipples; Theon tries to not stare; it does look rather painful but she doesn’t seem bothered at all.

“Pardon the interruption, Mistresses,” the woman says lightly, in a falsely sweet voice to Dany and Kyra. “But may I have a word with him?”

“Whatever you want to say, you can certainly say it in front of us,” Dany says from under lowered lashes, an unkind look in her violet eyes.

The newcomer seems irritated by the response, face darkening slightly.

Kyra gives her a side-eyed look. “Hello, Myranda. Do you have something to say or are you just going to stand there looking like a bitch?”

The woman’s face turns ugly at Kyra’s words. “Don’t you have work to do? I didn’t think he was yours.”

The ‘he’ in question must be Theon because she jerks her head towards him as she speaks. Kyra’s brows furrow and she shifts in her leather corset, which makes a distinct creaking sound. “Theon doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Doesn’t he?” Myranda snaps back, her black stained lips twisting with her words.

“Excuse me, but what the fuck is going on here?” Theon asks, looking between the women with a confused face.

The Breaker of Balls leans back against the bar, her arms spread out across the surface, dominating the space. A slow, amused smile barely shapes her lips as she watches the squabble silently. Myranda turns her attention back to Theon at the sound of his voice. She looks him up and down with a glare. Theon can’t understand what this chick’s problem is with him, but she always is looking at him like he’s killed her favorite pet. Like he ran her dog over. Blew up her cat with dynamite in its ass. He remembers her now; she’s the one that Bolton had dismissed like a dog the last time Theon had come to the club.

Her eyes are maelstroms of hate and loathing. Theon meets her gaze unflinchingly until she finally breaks eye contact submissively. Through gritted teeth, she says to the floor, “ _He’s_ waiting for you downstairs.”

Dany shows her teeth, but not by much. It’s a slight change in the shape of her lips; if Theon had blinked, he might have missed it. “Ooh. That’s so debonair of him.”

Theon scoffs to hide the thrill that zings down his back. “That’s what all this grief is about?” He asks Myranda with a disbelieving tone. “Trick, I don’t know what is going on with you, but you need to get off my nuts about him. You act like I’m stealing your boyfriend or something and frankly, it’s fucking gross.”

Myranda’s face goes white and she turns on her high, studded heels, marching off. Dany covers a laugh with her hand delicately. “I do enjoy watch her being put in her place,” the silver haired Dominatrix says softly.

Kyra nods in agreement, her earrings catching in the club’s dim light. “She certainly is something else.” She turns her gaze to Theon, lips quirking. “Are you really…going down there? I mean, you don’t have to just because Bolton calls. It isn’t a good thing, having his attention like this, you know.”

Dany sips her wine, a touch of it coloring her deep red lips. They glisten like they are blood stained. “You’ve heard the rumors of what he really does, haven’t you? Beyond the edgeplay?”

“What do you mean?”

Theon feels like a bug under a microscope as she looks at him. He gets the sensation of being inspected, like the heat of sunlight is burning a hole in his wing by a cruel child. She takes another sip, exotic violet eyes scanning the crowds on the dance floor. “If you knew. _Hah_. I can’t decide if it would thrill you or scare you away. You’re a mystery to me. If it isn’t the pain you’re after, it must be the chemical reaction of true fear.”

Rolling his eyes with a vaguely offended air, Theon snaps, “Are you calling me an adrenaline junkie?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh, get off it,” Theon says, downing his drink before slamming the glass back down on the bar, empty. “What I do in my private time doesn’t concern anyone else.”

As he starts to walk away, Kyra’s hand wraps around his bicep, stopping him. “It matters to me. It would matter to Robb. Ramsay Bolton is not a method of self-abuse that you want to use. We don’t want to see you harmed.”

Irritation causes Theon to jerk out of her grasp. “Using Robb against me? That’s a low blow, even for you.”

Her eyes widen at his words and disappointment crosses her face. She lets him go.

Theon strides off towards the stairs that go down. He crosses the dancefloor, letting the bodies there brush up against his in time to the beat. The dark blue, black and red lights flow with the ambience, on and off, making all movements seem slow and measured. The bass is soul sucking, a deep thrum that can be felt in Theon’s bones.

The club is packed tonight and the two bars on the first floor are fully crowded with thirsty guests. The second floor lounge is probably the same, the entertainment girls on their platforms and in their cages. It’s funny how all of this would have been strange to Theon once, but now seems normal.

He sees the professional subs and doms pairing up with clients, working with them through scenes, giving them an added thrill to be in the BDSM club. Some work on platforms, others go to the private rooms for shy customers. Or the ones that are looking to get fucked, Theon doesn’t really care.

When he gets to the entryway to descend down below ground, he pauses. The large, door-less opening is lined with skulls and Theon admires them as he steps down onto the first stone stair. The blood colored halls below are dark as Then makes his way to Bolton’s room at the far end, winding through the maze of dark halls. With every step, he can feel anticipation building, crawling up his spine.

Like the first time that Theon came to this room all those many weeks ago, there are two men hovering outside the slightly open door, smoking and talking quietly. There is a rough look about them, the kind that makes you wonder if you are about to get beat just for looking at them the wrong way. Theon stops just before them, adopting an arrogant expression.

Best not to show any weakness in front of these types.

“Ah,” the blonde says with a sneer, looking him up and down. “Princess is back. I didn’t take you for such a desperate painslut.”

Is that the assumption? Is that the requirement to come down here? Theon shrugs, opens both hands with a fake grin. “What’s with the labels? I may be a slut, but not for pain.”

_Because he isn’t. It isn’t the pain he’s after. The submission, the humiliation…and the disgusting way that knowledge makes him feel. The moments that he doesn’t have to be himself anymore. The moments that he feels like what he truly is inside._

The man looks stumped for a brief moment, like thinking takes up a lot of his energy. Then he frowns. “Painslut or not, you’re a total cunt. You don’t belong-”

A voice interrupts them. “Shut up, Damon. You’re here for a few reasons and giving your opinion is not one of them,” a low voice says flatly from inside the room.

The blonde man, Damon, shuts his mouth immediately and with a reluctant look, pushes door so that it is completely open.

Bolton is sitting in a chair, playing with a butterfly knife. It dances in his hand artfully, the blade catching the bloody light as it flashes about. The red light above him makes him look like something straight out of a gore movie. His legs are spread wide, eyes completely black in the dim lighting. Darkness radiates out from him and he’s like a Dark Lord ruling from the depths of his hell filled castle.

 _Drowned God, he’s terrifying, absolutely a horror,_ Theon thinks in stunned awe. _Why do I do this to myself?_

When the Dungeon Master speaks again, Theon feels his stomach drop and his heart stutter like a girl playing hop skip. Like a girl ready to spread her legs and roll over easy as you please. Bolton leans back in his chair lazily, his hips shifting.

“Crawl to me, Greyjoy.” Bolton demands huskily. “I’m waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, things are getting fun now :D Hope you guys have some favorite scenes in this one, because I know I do.
> 
> Next chapter might get delayed by a few days next week. Chapter 9 has been shaping itself over the past two weeks and has evolved drastically into something huge. Depending on how the chapter closes, it may end up being split into 2 parts or just a massive chapter on next week Sunday. Not sure yet, but one scene alone in the chapter is nearly 3000 words already so...things are getting wild. For real. So, if I don't make Friday next week, you know why!!!
> 
> Thank you for all yours lovely comments on the last chapter!! I love hearing your thoughts, they make my day, you have no idea :)


	9. Sting of the Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get out of hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. All belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
>  **AN:** Apologies all for the late night update, but had an all day and half the night work event that was actually unexpected. Also, this chapter is part I of a larger sequence. I did not want to make you wait for the second half to be completed, so here we are 9800 words in. This is a rough chapter, be warned. If you see mistakes, it's probably because I posted this late at night...will probably re-read tomorrow for mistakes and update as needed.
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments, they all make my day SO MUCH. You have no idea. I know I haven't gotten to responding to all of you yet, so my apologies, work was nuts this week (in between dealing with a lingering injury from my sport horse that has put me off a bit).

The two men outside of the playroom grin cruelly as Theon hesitates for a brief moment, his spine stiffening. It’s embarrassing, having these two goons witnessing this exchange. Theon would have preferred his humiliation to be in private, but it seems that the Dungeon Master has other plans on how the night goes.

He always does.

“Are you deaf?” Bolton’s voice is as harsh as a whip, licking against Theon’s skin.

Gritting his teeth against his shame and anger at being publicly demeaned, starts to step forward, to walk into the room before he gets into position, but the Dungeon Master isn’t having it. “Oh, no. Right there. Get on your knees. And crawl to me. I want them to see what you are.”

_What am I?_

Heat shivers through Theon’s body as he briefly closes his eyes. He takes one step back, back to where he had started, just in front of the door beside the two ‘guards’. With a pained expression, Theon sinks to his knees slowly, feeling every muscle in his body rebel against him.

When the hard ground connects with his knees, he finds himself unable to move. The idea of crawling is humiliating and the idea of debasing himself in that way gives him pause. _I may not have the best self-esteem, but I’m above looking like a dog._

A shaky breath leaves Theon’s lungs as he reaches forward with one hand, one after the other until he is crawling on hands and knees. No better than an animal. An animal approaching the butcher in the slaughterhouse.

Bolton is still sitting expectantly, staring down imperiously at Theon as the butterfly knife floats through his fingers. Theon knows it must be a live blade; Bolton wouldn’t screw around with the safety of a dull trainer’s edge. He’s too practiced and menacing, snaps the stupid thing around with authority.

If Theon had run into him in a dark alley flipping that blade around, he would probably turn on his heel and scram.

Inwardly, Theon grits his teeth as he moves forward, every inch of the way a mental pain, feeling disgusting as those darkened eyes watch his movements. He tries to not think of the two men on either side of the door, witnessing his apparent submission.

He watches Bolton as he crawls forward, boldly staring at his face until the other man’s blank expression finally cracks, showing disdain. “Head down. Or keep looking at me like that; see where that gets you.”

The butterfly knife, or otherwise known as a balisong, snaps through the air with those words, the threat apparent.

Even as anger rushes through Theon, he drops his head a bit, drops his gaze like a submissive dog, no longer staring down his master in challenge. He wants to sneer, _‘is this better’,_ but keeps his mouth shut. When he ends up in the familiar space between Bolton’s thighs, the other man uses his free hand to push his head down even further, mashing Theon’s face into his boots.

Theon makes a noise of irritation, of repugnance.

“My boots. Lick them.”

Something about this request goes one step too far. Theon’s head snaps up with an immediate reaction, revulsion. “What the fuck?!”

A booted foot hits him hard in the chest, knocking him backwards. The shock of being kicked so brutally almost negates the terror of being pinned to the ground by another body, one holding that damned knife under his chin. Bolton stares down at him, face blank, eyes spitting icicles. “What the fuck, _indeed_. Are you in charge here?”

“…No.”

The butterfly knife presses harder, a wasp sting. Teeth, white and vicious. “ _Then why are you acting like it_?”

Defiance still burns in Theon’s chest even as the sharp edge of the blade presses against him. Not cutting, but the threat is obvious, palpable. “I’m not licking your boots, dick rider.”

Bolton’s eyes are too dark in the dim crimson light of room, Theon can’t quite see the emotion there, but knows it must be murderous by the clench in his jawline. His eyes are on Theon’s lips, nose flared. “That mouth of yours. You’re straddling a fine line of being charmingly disobedient and downright disrespectful. You’ll do as I say or I’ll sew your mouth shut.”

Theon scoffs, rolling his eyes, but Bolton doesn’t laugh, doesn’t give an inch. “You think I’m joking? Ask the last girl that disrespected me that way. Her lips looked like she’d been hooked by a fish line and reeled in one too many times when I was done with her.”

Something stills in Theon’s chest, causes him to pause. There is no humor in the harsh lines of Bolton’s body language, he’s dead serious.

“Do you want me to do it?” The Dungeon Master sneers, jerking Theon’s head to expose his neck to his blade.

Lips, bloodied, filled with holes. Puffy and bruised from sewing needles. The image flashes into Theon’s mind and his stomach rolls over, tries to not think of a girl crying her way through removing the thread from her flesh. “No…no, I’ll do as you say… _Sir_.” He spits out the last bit for good measure.

Bolton stands up, looking down at him expectantly. His expression is shadowed in the dark, a mysterious nightmare that Theon just can’t figure out. Gagging mentally, Theon looks down at Bolton’s shoes and takes in a deep breath. Hates himself for giving in, for doing what he’s about to do.

He leans down, on hands and knees, presses his mouth to Bolton’s black lace-up work boots. “Use your tongue the way you would on a girl’s cunt,” Bolton narrates nastily, staring down at him, tone of voice dark.

The boots aren’t too filthy and Theon is thankful, but the very act is horrid, humiliating. Not the sort of humiliation that makes his stomach curl with sick need, but the kind that makes him want to throw up. He doesn’t give his best job, but he tries to make it look like he’s actually giving a girl head with the flat of his tongue.

Bolton seems satisfied. His eyes cut towards the still open door. “Damon, you can shut the door now.”

The door shuts with finality and Theon sighs in relief. An ounce of privacy returned.

“Stand up for me,” the Dungeon Master commands, face blank.

Theon stands, hates the taste of…ground in his mouth.

Bolton’s eyes travel up and down Theon’s body, inspecting him. Theon’s skin crawls, like pins and needles are being stuck across his flesh. “You’re not attached to this shirt, are you?”

“I…uh…probably not…wait! What the hell?”

Rattlesnake fast, the other man stands and grabs the collar of Theon’s shirt and slices through it roughly, helping the tear along with his hand. Theon’s shirt falls to the floor, ruined. Rage slices through him, like a burn from the stove on tender flesh. “I didn’t say you could cut it off!”

The blow to his stomach is hard enough to make him double over, gasping for air. He nearly throws up his dinner as it roils violently. “No. You didn’t. It’s gone, because I want it gone. Learn to hold your tongue,” Bolton says lowly, threats an undercurrent in his voice. “Collect yourself and stop crying.”

_I’m not crying asshole, I’m ticked off!_

Coughing until air hits his lungs again in a normal fashion, Theon straightens up, shivers in the cold, under the strict eye of his counterpart. Bolton’s lip quirks slightly as he looks at him, not pleased but not displeased.

He grabs some disinfectant wipes and rubs them over Theon’s bare chest and arms, clinical and quick. It smells of alcohol and all sorts of vile antiseptic chemicals. “What is this for?” Theon sees those winter eyes glance up at him briefly and Theon quickly tacks on, “Sir?”

“Best to keep your skin clean for what we are about to do. Staves off infection,” Bolton says flatly, as if speaking of the weather.

None of what he said sounds like a go for Theon, but he’s no coward, he’ll see this through. Bolton throws the wipes into the covered garbage and then gestures towards the far wall.

“Start by laying down on this,” Bolton points to the strange, spiderweb looking steel contraption by the wall. He unlocks a mechanism in the back and rotates the spiderweb down like a wheel so that Theon can lay down on the oblong padding in the center, where a human body would rest. There are straps on the pad, along with foot straps and wrist straps in a spread-eagle position, located closer to the edge of the wheel.

Apprehensive, Theon starts towards it and hops on shakily, the wheel moving with his weight. He lays down on his back, staring up at the man beside him.

“We’ll start with a game,” The Dungeon Master says conversationally, strapping Theon to the strange wheel. The thick straps are tight around his ankles and wrists, cutting into his flesh. Theon feet are strapped into foot placements, which would most likely allow him to stand when the wheel rotates. The cushion behind his back supports his ass all the way up to his head, one moderate strap over his chest, holding him in. “I’m _dying_ to know about these girls you called me about earlier this week. I’ve been wondering what exactly it is that you tried with them, these… _conquests_ of yours.”

With Theon strapped in, he shifts the wheel back up towards the wall so that Theon is now upright instead of on his back. The wheel moves however Bolton wants, backwards or forward, upside down. A strange device, but terrifying. It locks in place for whatever position Bolton chooses. It’s like a spider’s web and Theon is stuck in it. The black widow is standing in front of him, grinning widely.

“How do we play… _Sir_?” Theon asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

Bolton remains grinning, playing with his butterfly knife idly. It flips through his fingers, hypnotic. “I’ll say a statement about you and if I’m right, I get to make you bleed. If I’m wrong, well, I leave you alone until the next question. I get ten statements. If I get the last one right…I get to stab you.”

His voice gets higher, excited with the last few words. There’s a wild look in his eyes and Theon feels like a meal.

The words have no meaning in Theon’s head as he stares at Ramsay in disbelief. His sea-green eyes land on the dancing knife in Bolton’s hands and the Dungeon Master chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh? Oh no. Not with _this_. I should have been more clear. I’ll stab you with _this_.”

He goes to a drawer and pulls out a large knife, one that looks sharp enough to cut the tip of a finger with a gentle touch. Theon starts heaving.

_Have I just let a madman tie me up? Holy shit._

Bolton puts both sharp objects down after seeing Theon’s expression. A twisted grin remains on his lips, a skeleton grin. He grabs something else out of one of the boxes on the far table, pulls out an eyemask, a thick one.

 _And he’s going to cover my eyes. This keeps getting better. I’m going to die. I’m going to die of terror. If he doesn’t kill me first._ Theon’s breathing gets low and fast, his naked chest rising and falling quickly. He worries that he’s going to black out, that he isn’t getting enough air.

As Bolton gets closer, he cocks his head to the side, an eyebrow rising delicately. He notes the state that Theon is in, the vast constriction of his pupils, the sudden pallor of his skin. “Don’t put that thing on me…” Theon begs, attempting to move his head out of reach.

The Dungeon Master slaps him emotionlessly. Though Theon expects the blow, it’s still jarring, a sharp sting across his cheek. “Remember how I feel about being told what to do? You should count yourself lucky you didn’t say ‘please’. Apologize. Immediately.”

Something curls up in Theon’s stomach and dies, rotting and stinky like rotten flesh. He’s going to be sick. He can’t breathe. “I’m s…sorry, Sir.”

“Good boy.” Without any further delay, Ramsay gently places the thick eye mask on Theon, shutting out what remains of the light. A fine layer of sweat instantly breaks out on Theon’s skin, his heartrate skyrocketing.

His heart is about to pop out of his chest like something out of _Alien_. The world suddenly tilts, spins in the darkness of his blindfold. That’s never good, never good when the darkness spins.

“Alright. Breathe. You’re getting too worked up again,” Bolton says clinically, detached. “In and out. Slower. _Slower_ than that. I don’t need you fainting before we even start.”

Theon tries, lets that flat voice calm him. He’s not in the hands of a psycho, he’s in the hands of a man whose job is causing terror for fun. _He’s not going to kill you, calm the fuck down,_ Theon tells himself on repeat, each deep inhale hurting his aching chest.

A hand presses against his belly, now latex covered. Distant. Not intimate. “You _are_ rather emotional, aren’t you? Getting so riled up before I even use the blade,” Bolton says conversationally, with a hint of mocking behind it. A sneer you can almost taste. “You’re a cheap date.”

“You have that effect,” Theon utters, barely a whisper. Then he adds, “Sir.” An afterthought, but a necessary one.

“Good boy,” Ramsay says again, a low, pleased rumble.

With those words, Theon relaxes into the bindings and sighs. Likes the way that praise makes him feel. _Allows_ the other man to have his body. _Gives_.

For some time, there is silence and Theon lays into it, lets his mind drift. Tries to keep his thoughts off the blade, off the sharp objects that he knows are just beyond the eye mask on his face. Then, “First statement. Every night on tour, this past week, you fucked a different girl.”

Theon blinks behind his mask, considers the question. He’s not really worried, this isn’t a completely accurate statement. “I didn’t. At least, I don’t think I did. I was with Robb on Saturday and Tuesday night.”

A snort of disbelief. “You fucked Robb Stark?”

“Wh-what? No. We slept in the same bed. Is that a crime?”

Theon’s head whips to the side, fire blossoming on his left cheek. A backhand, this time. “Don’t get lippy with me,” The Dungeon Master hisses.

Holding his tongue, wisely, Theon spits blood from his mouth. Doesn’t know where it lands and frankly, he doesn’t care. Then, the sound of something akin to nails on a chalkboard reverberates in the room. A rasping, metallic sound. A sound like two blades being run against each other.

All the hair on Theon’s neck rises instantly. A sound, so simple a sound sends dread into the pit of his belly, imagining Bolton standing there with two blades in hand. Running the blades together like a butcher or a mad chef.

“Oh, shi…” Theon lets the words die in his dry mouth.

“Next statement,” Bolton says caustically, a monster from a horror film. “Your new song. It’s about me.”

Theon’s pulse picks up, but he can still save this. “I have two new songs that I’ve released. Which one are you referencing?”

The rasp of the blades being run across one another claws at Theon’s ear, a song of doom. He can imagine Bolton stepping closer, baring his teeth. “ _Phantom_.”

The Dungeon Master must see the answer, the truth in Theon’s body as he stiffens, the way his breathing picks up again. Anticipation and horror; the body can’t lie. Can’t hide the truth from a man who deals in skin, in horror and torture. There is a sudden pressure, ice cold, on Theon’s pectoral, stinging as it presses in and drags down his flesh.

He tries to not flinch, tries to not jerk, but he can feel rivulets of…something…run down his skin. Theon curses aloud, tries to vocalize his horror as the blade dances across his flesh, suddenly becoming a whisper. A loud threat, gliding on his dermis.

“Sir,” he remembers to say first, “May I ask you something?” His voice quivers violently, shock from the first cut. He knows he can’t make demands, not here and not when the other man has a sharp object.

Bolton concedes. “You may.” His voice is strange, thick. Aroused?

“Can…can we try to not scar me too bad? This time?”

Something hard and sharp slaps his belly hard, comes out of nowhere and Theon shouts, sweat pouring down his back. The flat of the blade, it must have been, but if he had moved too much, he could have caused himself serious damage.

It’s terrifying, not knowing where the weapon is, unable to see where Bolton is. Something touches Theon again, causing him to cry out sharply. Bolton chuckles cruelly at his reaction; Theon comes to realizes the touch is latex covered fingers once again as Bolton’s hand splays on his stomach. “I thought you wanted marks, so you could feel the hands of this phantom even when you’re alone,” Bolton says mockingly, paraphrasing the gist of the Theon’s song.

It’s true, Theon doesn’t mind the marks, but he also doesn’t want to be carved up like a turkey. “Aw,” Theon says instead, wrapping arrogance around himself like armor. Tries to find some form of control again. “Do you like my singing? I’m so flattered.”

He feels the point dig into his flesh again and he stops breathing, holding his breath so that he doesn’t breathe into the tip of the blade as it makes an indent in his skin. It could cut through him like butter, he could puncture an organ, he could fucking die, right here, right now.

“I like you better when you _scream_.”

The knife swipes across him in an elegant fashion, or so Theon vaguely imagines as he cries out, the sharp, intense burn of his flesh sounding the alarm in his head. The sounds that come from his chest are squeezed, tight, like he doesn’t want to let the sounds go.

“You’re not into pain.”

Theon bares his teeth painfully, a ghost of a smile. “Is that a statement or a question? I can’t tell, _Sir_.”

A fingernail, protected by latex of course, runs over Theon’s open cut. He groans audibly, unprepared for the awful feeling, the gross invasion of his injury. “It’s a statement.”

Theon says, ‘fuck’, under his breath. It’s the truth; he does not get off on pain. “I’m not.”

He can feel a warm breath on his ear as Bolton comes close, whispers, “That’s what I like about you.”

There is a moment of silence as Theon waits, his pulse pounding. He thinks he hears water, ice cubes, somewhere in the room, but he’s distracted when the blade presses into the dip by his hip bone. The line it carves across his flesh burns like frostbite in knife form. A torn howl rips from Theon’s throat, trying hard to not move his body.

After all, moving his body could cause the knife to dip in deeper, he can’t even see where it is. The risk, the danger…it’s all far to real.

By the time statement nines comes, Theon’s entire chest is on fire, burning and burning. He can feel blood dripping from multiple cuts and he fears what he looks like, hopes the cuts aren’t hideous. Bolton sighs audibly, his gloved hand plucking at Theon’s waistband idly. “You were with Robb Stark on Saturday and Tuesday night. That leaves a desperate slut for Wednesday night. You asked her to hit your face while you did the deed.”

“You’re wrong,” Theon grits out, a fine layer of sweat on his chest. “That night, I had the girl wrap my belt around my throat while she fucked me. I made her tug on it while she rode my cock.”

This gives the Dungeon Master pause. Bolton swallows audibly and Theon feels like he’s impressed him. Theon wants to know what he looks like; are those pale eyes wide with surprise? Anger? Something unfathomable? “Well,” Bolton says with a breathy sound, “Now you’ve got me jealous. I bet you looked positively wreckable with a belt around that throat of yours.”

Giving him a crooked smile, Theon tilts his head the best he can while strapped up. “Jealous of how good I am at getting women to do what I want? They’ll do anything I want, as long as I let them choke on my cock.”

Bolton makes an unamused sound at Theon’s words. The blade dances close to Theon throat and he doesn’t dare to swallow, can sense the steel there. “No,” Bolton says with a voice like gravel and stone, “I’m resentful that you let someone else do that to you first.”

They pause there, breathing in each other’s air, tension between them. The air, thick with it. Ramsay steps away briefly, taking his warmth with him. “I guess you win that round. But we have one statement left, don’t we? The only one that matters.” The menace in his tone sends shivers of dread down Theon’s spine.

“Bring it on,” Theon snaps, trying to hide his fear. The bastard has something up his sleeve, he knows it.

_If I get the last one right…I get to stab you._

The Dungeon Master goes silent as the grave, made of stone. Theon can imagine him staring straight at Theon, straight past his flesh and bones. Those pale eyes would unravel him, peel his skin back with ease. In those eyes, Theon would probably see his doom shaping. It feels like he is caught in the moment before a terrible accident, one you know is coming but can’t stop. “What to ask…” Bolton muses lowly, acting like he doesn’t already know exactly what he wants to say. Finally, he deadpans, “When this…girl…was strangling you with your belt. You thought of me. You thought of me even as she rode your fucking cock.”

The air leaves Theon’s lungs in a rush, like a balloon being popped. There one minute and then gone the next. “No!”

He says it far too quickly, his body language can’t lie, and the Dungeon Master can read his emotions in the pulse in his neck. Bolton chuckles cruelly, the rasp of a blade accompanying the sound, even as Theon spews all sort of denials. Bolton happily says, “I win!”

When the truth sets into Theon’s bones, he understands what this means for him and white noise takes over his ears. A rush of sound, like a waterfall, fills his ears as he tries to not think of the one in control of the situation. The man with the blade, the large fucking knife that is going to wreck Theon. He’s going to stab him, he going to stab Theon with a knife, it’s going to be like dying.

Uncontrollably, Theon begins to shake as cold settles over him, a chill, like he’s standing by an open door in the middle of the coldest winter. The claws of terror dig into his spine, sharp and unbending.

The point of the knife dances precariously around his navel, a slow scrape, just shy of slicing. The sensation causes Theon’s stomach to twitch madly, like a fish out of water, gasping for air desperately as it suffocates. The result is him cutting himself against the point, sharp white agony. The blade catches in his belly button. “Have you ever seen someone die?” Bolton asks contemplatively, pressing the knife in harder.

His voice begins to change, gets hushed, almost breathy. Excited, like he’s trying to keep control of himself.

A sound, a strange one, crawls out of Theon’s throat, like a prisoner desperate to escape captivity, clawing its way out frantically. He can imagine Bolton’s eyes pale and vicious, and Theon wonders if he’ll turn into a werewolf right there and then, eyes hungry and terrifying, ready to devour Theon and turn him into his creature. Bolton continues, his voice low. “Have you watched the light leave someone’s eyes, the intelligence as they disappear?”

His voice is like dark sludge, filled with sin and arousal. The idea of death and blood getting him off, the very air filled with Theon’s fear, intoxicating. Heady to a predator. “You make it so hard,” Bolton mutters, hoarse. Cryptic. Probably not meant for Theon’s ears. “You fall into terror so easily.”

Blood trickles down Theon’s skin, hot and thick. Something in his mind is cracking open, something he keeps under lock and key, deep within. The blade and the terror, the sensation of helplessness…he’s been here before. In his mind, he can see blood spilling overboard, blood soaking his white sneakers, Maron’s furious snarl and burning green eyes, the way his head exploded like rotten fruit and sprayed all over Theon.

He hates and hates, feels a raw wound that has never healed break open inside of his chest. Theon knows death intimately and it isn’t arousing at all, not like how Bolton fetishizes it. Death haunts Theon’s dreams at night.

“My brothers are dead,” Theon hisses through clattering teeth, feeling darkness creeping over him, insidious and cruel.

_ Remembers the way his father had looked at him in disappointment, that Theon was the only one to come back alive. It had been Theon’s fault that they weren’t alive, Theon should have died in their place. _

There is a brief moment of respite, of silence. The Dungeon Master must be staring at him, calculating mind thinking awful, horrible thoughts, tongue running across his front teeth. Then, Bolton starts laughing raucously. “Oh. _Oh_. I see. Your Dear Daddy blames you. You didn’t save them, you let his precious boys die. Poor Theon Greyjoy, ‘ _my brothers are dead,’_ ” Bolton simpers _._ “I bet you cried your way through it. I bet you ran and hid like a coward.”

Snarling furiously, tugging at the restraints, Theon bares his teeth. The muscles in his arms strain, his veins beginning to cord with the effort. He wants to leap down and strangle the other man with anything he can find. He wants to end that stupid smile that he knows is there and tear it off like ripping off a fresh band-aid. “I was just a boy. I couldn’t have done anything!”

He can imagine his blood, dripping crimson on the steel of Bolton’s blade, coating it. His flesh, open and vulnerable to the Dungeon Master’s will. If he wanted to end it all, Theon couldn’t even stop him.

Cold descends on Theon, deep in his bones, and ache without end. He can almost taste the ocean spray on his tongue, smell the copper of blood in the air. The screams surround him, pounding in his skull and he can’t make it stop. He wants to cover his ears, but he can’t, he’s tied up, he can’t stop the screams in his head.

Distantly, Theon knows and recognizes that his mind is spiraling out of control. He’s not thinking straight anymore, fear and adrenaline coursing in his veins, his natural chemicals skyrocketing. _Why can’t I stop thinking about that day,_ he wonders painfully as yet another vivid image comes to his mind, the business end of a gun pointed at himself and Maron.

The sound it made when it fired.

Now, he can feel Bolton’s breath on his cheek as he steps closer, his heat against Theon’s quivering body.

“Don’t move.” The Dungeon Master says softly, a ghost in Theon’s mind now, cutting through the screams. “Wouldn’t want me to cut too deep, would we?”

Theon’s mind shuts down and his body along with it, a sensation of dying and disassociating.

_Sheer terror blanks through Theon’s mind, takes him back to the boat, sees Rodrik getting stabbed again and again and again. The blood blossoming on his white shirt, the shocked look on his face as the knife speared his flesh._

_As blood poured onto the deck, running likes small rivers towards Theon’s bare feet._

_Maron, turning to Theon with a strange look in his green eyes, trying to grab Theon to push him overboard when the gunshot cracks through the air, pummeling Theon’s eardrums. Exploding Maron’s face in a parody of fireworks, bright reds floating everywhere._

_His body, now dead, collides with Theon’s smaller frame, knocking him hard into the railing of the boat. With a scream, he pushes at Maron’s body, covered in his blood. ‘Get the youngest one,’ the man in the white suit is saying, cleaning his gun. ‘That’s Balon’s youngest. This should teach him a lesson to screw with our business.’_

_Theon can’t stop it, can’t stop any of it. Loud boat horns sound against the horizon, someone is coming, but its too late. He’s going to die; they’re going to kill him and it’s going to hurt. He throws himself overboard, ready to drown._

Theon’s body is rattling the wheel with the level of his shaking, he can’t calm his body, it’s beyond his control. He can’t stop what is coming. He’s going to die; this man is going to kill him here in this nightclub basement. Suddenly, there is intense pressure where the knife is pressing into his side and he screams incoherently, imagining the steel parting the flesh of his abdomen. He’s going to bleed out and die in this dungeon. He’s going to die, his time has finally fucking come, won’t his dad be proud?

His dad will finally get his wish.

Theon feels something hot, so hot that it at first feels cold, run down his leg.

Bolton makes a disgusted noise. “What an untried bitch you are. I haven’t even hurt you and you’ve made a mess. _Filthy boy_.” The Dungeon Master sneers cruelly.

Theon is panting hard, gasping for air. His lungs can’t seem to expand enough and he starts breathing faster and faster. He feels like he’s suffocating, like someone has tied off his throat. There is wetness everywhere, sweat and now other fluids soaking his jeans. In terrified confusion, Theon sinks inward, searching his body for damage, but doesn’t feel a hole in his side.

It's then that Bolton drags a blunt object against his skin gently, causing Theon to cry out, then sob with realization. Bolton must have used the hilt to dig into his side with blunt force, all while Theon thought he was about to get stabbed brutally.

He’d wanted to see Theon’s reaction. He’d wanted to see what he would do if he were about do die.

The eye mask is suddenly taken off and light blinds Theon, so bright that he closes his eyes again. Slowly, he squints his eyes, his body shaking madly, and sees that Ramsay had the lights on fully in the room, bright white lights.

_He must have turned them on after he blindfolded me, so he could see what he was doing…while I had to sit here think he was cutting me in the dark and could easily make a mistake._

Bolton is flushed, sweat on his brow. His pale eyes are wide as he stares at Theon, holds up a blade, which turns out is not the giant butchers blade he had tormented Theon with before blindfolding him. It was a mindfuck, all a game. Everything is always a game.

As Bolton meets his gaze directly, Bolton says, “There. Now I can see the look in your eyes when I do this.”

Theon opens his mouth to ask what he’s talking about when the slight blade slips into his flesh, Bolton pushing it straight in, at least an inch. Theon wails in horror, jerking against the restraints as Bolton pulls the blade away quickly. Most likely to make sure Theon didn’t impale himself completely.

Panting, sobbing, Theon briefly sees the dilation of Bolton’s pupils, the way the black eats his pale irises. “Oh, God,” Theon says brokenly, hanging his head. Blood pours from his side, hot against his skin.

Bolton sighs, cocking his head to look him up and down. “I suppose that’s enough for you, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Theon snarls without any heat behind the words.

For once, Bolton does nothing about his insubordination. He gently unstraps Theon and helps him down, guiding his shaky form over to one of the chairs. “Sit here. I need to clean those cuts up.”

Ah. Professional and detached again.

Blankly, Theon looks down at his body, his body that no longer seems like it belongs to him. There aren’t as many cuts as he thought there would be. He notes the ice bucket on the floor beside the wheel and figures that Bolton had been dipping his blade in to give the sensation of tearing his flesh open, the water dripping down Theon’s body to mimic blood.

Pure terror play, though there is enough blood on Theon’s chest to prove that many of the incisions were actually real.

Bolton crouches beside him and starts cleaning the cuts, disinfecting and then placing gauze over the injuries. Surgical tape is used to keep the gauze over the injuries. His hands are gentle, precise. Theon sees the way he bites his lip as he concentrates on treating the wounds he caused. “Tomorrow you’re going to want to clean these again,” Bolton says, beginning to breathe normally again, excitement fading from his gaze.

Theon is happy to see the excitement fade from those eyes, he’s mad and he’s empty all at once. _I didn’t agree to this,_ he muses, staring at the other man. It takes about ten minutes to get him all ‘taken care of’, most of it spent in silence. Bolton concentrating on getting Theon patched up and Theon lost in his own mind, dwelling on lost things from the past.

When he’s done, Ramsay looks at him with a calm expression. “It’s a normal reaction. Fear does that to most.”

It takes Theon a vast minute to realize that he’s talking about Theon pissing himself out of sheer terror. Feeling cold and despicable, hearing screams of the past echoing in his head, Theon makes an ugly face. Tries to concentrate on the present, but it’s hard. “And all of these clients of yours, they piss themselves out of fear too?”

A calculating look, a twist of the tongue over white teeth. “Yes. And some of them just want me to piss all over them instead. I imagine it’s something you’re going to want, eventually, the way you fucking snivel for humiliation.”

A slow blink, a moment of _excuse me, what_? The screams echo louder in Theon’s head, blood and brain matter, a sea that turned red now turns yellow and Theon shakes his head, tries to get his thoughts straight. “Not in your wildest dreams,” Theon grits out, throat tight, lungs refusing air.

_ Angry, he’s so fucking angry and lost, lost at sea. _

“We’ll see. Won’t we?” Bolton holds out a large white shirt to Theon. It’s thin material, clearly throwaway material one might find at a hospital. “Here. You can put this on since your shirt is cut up. You can throw this away when you’re done.”

Putting it on gingerly, Theon stands and looks at the other man, numbly says, “Are we done here?”

Bolton blinks, shifts his weight with a strange look. His brows furrow. “We are.”

“Great.” When Theon leaves, he brushes past Bolton with an air of indifference, doesn’t look to see the expression of surprised confusion on Bolton’s face.

On the outside, Theon has retreated behind his iron walls. On the inside, he’s a catastrophe of broken emotion and memory. Gunshots and screams and the roar of the sea. He feels so cold and the shaking of his body just won’t stop.

All Theon knows is that he needs to get out of here, he’s suffocating under all of it. Every movement pulls at his incisions, a pulling sensation that he really could do without. Like a teddy bear whose arms are being pulled and the seams are coming loose.

The screams in his head play like a movie track, entangling in with the bass of the club, a horror show circus, monsters dancing around him. Why can't he breathe?

Everything is a wild mess as he struggles to get towards the exit of the club, the chaos storm of a war zone in his mind. He can’t focus, he can barely breathe, just wants escape. He feels wrong and disgusting, his wet jeans cooling against him. He barely has time to pray that no one sees the wet stain on his pants.

Arms wrap around him without warning and he lashes out, jerky away wildly. Eyes nearly unseeing in the dark light. “Theon, it’s me. It’s Kyra. Look at me, baby, shhhh.”

The feminine voice penetrates the roar blasting through his head and he blinks until Kyra comes into view, her face upturned, looking at his desperately. Whatever she sees on his face, in his eyes, makes her lips tremble. “Oh. What _happened_?! Oh no. I’m getting you home, right now. Hang on, it’s okay. I’m going to take care of you. Let me get my keys and let the shift manager know I’m leaving early.”

Theon doesn’t argue with her, a lost leaf floating in the wind. He will go wherever she takes him. She disappears for a hot minute, but when she comes back, she looks furious, the Dungeon Master hot on her heels. “You’re blowing this out of proportion,” Bolton is saying to her, people stepping out of his way as he plows after her.

“Out of proportion or not, this is unacceptable,” Kyra snaps. “I have to go home early to take care of him, I told Geneva already, she said she has me covered.”

A confused look crosses Bolton’s face. “I already took care of him.”

Kyra grabs Theon by the arm, makes an ugly noise that may or may not be half of a bitter laugh. “What a good job you did. Want a prize?”

“What is the problem here? He walked out perfectly fine on his own. He’s a big boy,” Bolton says dryly, eyes flitting between Theon and Kyra.

Theon can’t look at him.

“In what world does he look fine? He’s sub-dropping, _you utter troll_!” Kyra yells hoarsely, face contorting with her words. “He’s coming home with me so I can fix your mess.”

Bolton’s face contorts with rage, but Kyra just grabs Theon and pulls him towards the exit without another word, wrath written in the lines of her face.

He lets her pull him out to her car and he pauses miserably beside the open passenger seat, looks at her with the look of an abused animal. “My jeans…I ah…” He doesn’t want to sit in her car, reeking of urine, sitting in it.

It’s so humiliating that he can’t bring himself to say the words. He gestures to himself and Kyra squints at the material, having been unable to see in the dark of the club. “Oh…is that? Oh, Theon. I don’t care. _I don’t care_. Just get in the car. I’ll fix you at home, it’s alright.”

Her voice cracks a bit and Theon’s worried she might cry. He doesn’t think he can handle it if she cries over him.

She helps him into the passenger seat and gently buckles his seatbelt, like he’s a child who can’t do it himself. He lets her do it, doesn’t mind actually. Her soft lips brush his forehead before she closes the door, walking to the driver’s seat.

As they drive to her apartment, Theon presses the heel of his hands into his eyes, tries to blot the horrid memories from his thoughts. The image of his brother’s skull exploding like rotten fruit replays like a broken record and a horrid taste fills his mouth as saliva builds there. He can almost taste copper and brain tissue on his tongue and he gags involuntarily.

He can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t.

Inside Kyra’s place, she quickly strips the wet jeans off of him, even takes the borrowed shirt to throw it all in the washer. Theon wraps his arms around himself, doesn’t want her to see his shame, what he allowed. To see his weakness written into his flesh. Her eyes drift over the cuts, some deeper than others. Most all have white surgical tape and gauze over them, but red has already started to stain the white.

Her gentle hand hovers over his left side, over the thickest pile of gauze. Her eyes are a mix of anger and disappointment, a stinging combination. “Knife play, Theon? _Knife play_?! You guys are _so cool_ , so goddamn _edgy_ , jumping straight to something like this when you don’t even know each other!”

Theon closes his eyes, clenches his jaw as he swallows hard. He doesn’t need her judgement; he already feels like he’s the worst person on the planet. “Did you bring me here just to scold me? I didn’t know what he was going to do, I never know.”

A small sob dies in her throat and her hands come up to each side of his face, cradling him. “He didn’t stab you, did he?”

He can’t look at her. “It wasn’t much. Just an inch or so. It was quick.”

For some reason, she looks like she’s going to cry again. She goes to her linen closet and pulls out a huge fluffy blanket, throws it around his naked form. It’s warm and comforting, makes Theon feel like he’s in the embrace of his mother. Kyra tugs on his wrist gently, avoiding the swelling there from the tight restraints. “Where are we going?” Theon mumbles, his tongue thick.

“To bed. I’ll get you some pain pills, some hot cocoa, and then we are going to snuggle until you fall asleep. It will help, I promise. Do you feel really down?”

He feels like he did when they fished his brother’s bodies from the sea. Their rotted, destroyed bodies. Theon should have been there floating with them, but he wasn’t. “Something happened. I…I was trapped in my mind. The accident…from back then. It was like I was there again.”

Kyra’s lips take a downturn. She’s well aware of what happened on the Greyjoy boating outing. The one that ended up with a lot of dead bodies.

“You’re experiencing a sub drop. You had an intense session with Bolton and your adrenaline and endorphins must have spiked drastically. Not to mention…triggering you over something that has bothered you for years,” Kyra explains as she joins him on the bed, feeding him pills. “You’re having a severe crash, most likely laced with PTSD and shock. Not a good combo, sweetie.”

When she comes back with hot cocoa, he tries to push it away, but Kyra insists firmly. “I need you to drink this.”

“I’m not cold and it’s not winter.”

“Stop being a brat. You need some sugar. Drink it for me,” She says, guiding it to his lips like his mother would have when he was sick.

Kyra strips off her clothes and throws on her pretty pink nightgown, long and flowy. A drastic change from her black leather and studs. She snuggles next to him in bed, holding him, wrapping her whole body around his frame. Theon can feel every inch of her and for once, it doesn’t feel sexual, but rather safe and comforting.

Like she’s trying to crawl into his skin and be his shield against the world.

They lie there, wrapped around each other, listening and feeling each other breathing. Theon lets his fingertips touch her skin, reminds himself that she’s real, that she won’t let him go, won’t let him drop into darkness. Kyra will keep him tethered to reality. She’ll keep him from crawling back to the man that punishes him like he deserves.

_My brothers are dead. I couldn’t save them. I watched them die. _

“I think I’m broken,” he croaks, listening to the cars drive by outside. “I think something is wrong with me. Why did I let him do that to me?”

Lights from cars dance across the dark bedroom wall.

“I hate being in love with you,” Kyra whispers into the dark.

Theon pretends he doesn’t hear her.  
  


* * *

 

Sunday is quiet and Theon feels strangely subdued. A depression, a listlessness has come over him and he can’t understand why. Objectively, he sees the depression for what it is, knows he must be down because he’s not hungry, doesn’t want to do anything, and feels fatigued, but the why is evading him.

Kyra gets them set up on the couch in front of the tv, coffee in hand. It’s comforting, being with her, knowing she’s there for him. He doesn’t feel quite so alone.

He sees the look on her face and gives an empty laugh. “Is it time for your lecture? I know you’ve been dying to go off on me about this. Hit me with your best shot, love.”

Her feet rest on his lap as she sips her coffee, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “I’m not going to lecture you. But I am going to say I warned you about him.”

Theon rolls his eyes dramatically, mouth slightly open. “Here we go…”

Kyra’s lips press together slightly, but she doesn’t look away. “There are reasons why knife play and blood play are not things that strangers tend to do together. It requires skill, trust, and some level of intimacy. Bolton has the skill, but you don’t have the trust and certainly not the intimacy.”

“Oh, so we need to be boning in order to hurt and humiliate each other? Sounds lovely, Kyra.” Theon looks back at the television, watching the screen blankly. “You’ve cleared up everything for me.”

She shoves her foot on his cheek playfully while he bats her away. “Not like that, don’t be vulgar. I mean, this happened because he doesn’t know you. He did something or said something that triggered you and sent you back to a dark place. Bolton had no clue that when you were done with that scene, you would be locked in your mind and about to throw yourself off a bridge. Having intimacy means knowing someone else and knowing what is not an acceptable thing to do or say to them when having an intense, emotional scene.”

Theon sighs. He understands, but, “Bolton has no interest in knowing me, so the point is moot.”

“He’s a monster, Theon. He is not the person you should be exploring this part of yourself with. He will take you straight off the edge and he will not take care of you,” Kyra whispers, holding her coffee close. “You need someone with patience, who will want to take care of you after.”

Resting his head back against the couch, Theon grimaces. “I’m not looking for a damn boyfriend. I want…I don’t know what. I don’t fucking know.”

“That’s a problem. You can’t jump in blind with someone who is balls out risky when you don’t even have a plan!”

He feels more lost than ever. Depression drags him down into a dark pit of endless nothingness, eating away at his skin and soul. His body is on the fritz, his hormones and emotions all over the place. Last night had started out fine, but it felt like a race car going from zero to sixty in under three seconds.

Things had been tame…until they hadn’t been and Theon had gotten the distinct impression that Bolton had actually been trying to control himself.

It’s a scary thought.

When nighttime comes, Kyra begins to get ready for another night at the club. For the first time in a long time, Theon has no desire to go with.

“I’ve got to go,” she says wearily.

“Is he going to be mad at you? I vaguely recall you calling him a troll,” Theon says with little inflection. “I don’t want you to lose your job because of me.”

He’s so numb inside and he wants her to stay with him all day. He wants her to chase his nightmares away, make him feel normal again.

With a sad smile, Kyra shrugs her shoulders. “Let’s hope he didn’t get offended then, huh? Do you want me to call Robb and have him come stay with you tonight?”

That would be an absolute horror show. “No, do not call Robb. You know how that will go. He’ll try to get in my business relentlessly and then he will go on the warpath if he finds out.” Then, he begs. “Please, don’t go.”

Her lips touch his chin as she tilts her head up to look at him, warm yearning in her gaze. “Love, I wish I could stay with you. I’ll be home around 1AM. I’ll be quiet when I come in.”

Theon watches the door shut behind her, despondent. When loneliness settles in, he embraces it like an old friend, retreating to the bedroom. It is there that he spends most of the night staring at nothing, trying to keep the memories out of his head

It isn’t until it’s midnight that he gives up and stumbles into Kyra’s medicine cabinet. He finds the pills that he is looking for, the ones that will put him out. He swallows one extra and sits back down on the bed, watching as his surroundings slowly melt together, bleeding.

He’s elated when darkness sweeps him under.

* * *

 

On Monday, he wakes up to a beep from his phone, lost in Kyra’s sheets with her sleeping soundly beside him. Her makeup from working at the club last night makes her eyes look like a raccoon and Theon finds it endearing.

He has a text from Ramsay Bolton.

_Where were you last night?_

Theon stares at the question through his blanket of depression and dismay. Almost feels nothing, doesn’t feel any spark of interest that the other man reached out to him.

 _I’ve been at Kyra’s,_ Theon texts back mindlessly, _I don’t feel well._

Theon doesn’t get a response and that’s peachy keen. He changes the background photo on his phone back to the ocean, doesn’t need to look at himself kneeling between Bolton’s thighs.

* * *

 

Theon finally pops out of his depressed state by Wednesday and spends the day with the band. They do a few light jam sessions, just to keep on top of things, but nothing too serious. They don’t go on tour again for another few weeks.

On Thursday night, Robb wrangles them all together to go out. “You’re like herding cats, guys, come on.”

Gendry squints, thinking, which isn’t his strong point. “But, you can’t herd cats.”

Robb sighs, looking rather dapper in his button-down shirt. “Exactly. That’s exactly my point.”

They go out as a crew, thought Ayra tags along to be with Gendry. Or to keep tabs on him, who knows. Theon finds her to be a nosy tag along, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Jon and Robb are both touchy about their sisters and what people say about them.

Bar-hopping comes easily enough on a Thursday night, all the specials one could hope for on display in the downtown. Theon drinks more than enough, is happy to play at being normal for a night. He’s happy to put his mask on and dance around in it, French-kissing the girls he comes across on the various dancefloors they go to.

By the fifth bar, Theon degrades to simply being a static barfly, sitting in a seat and watching the action unfold, too plastered to care about dancing or doing anything strenuous, like picking up women to go home with. It would feel like a betrayal to Kyra this time around, especially after all the time and effort she put into him the past few days. _That didn’t stop you from kissing other girls tonight though, did it, asshole,_ Theon thinks self-depreciatingly.

Robb and Jon join him at the bar, Jon sitting on the barstool beside Theon, Robb simply standing beside them both, swaying with the music.

They watch Gendry and Arya dance, close together. Probably too close together for Robb’s tastes. Theon gestures to the dancing pair with his chin. “He told me he wants to marry her, you know.”

Jon, ever serious Jon, so like Ned Stark, simply nods. “Good luck to him, then.”

Theon chugs his beer, giving Jon some drunken side-eye. “Do you ever loosen up?”

Robb orders some red-headed slut shots. “He never does. Never. I lived with him long enough to know. He only gets better with drink.”

Theon laughs, a raspy sound, because he doesn’t laugh too much. “Drink, motherfucker, drink. I’ve always wondered,” he says, clinking his shot glass with Robb and Jon’s, “When you and Ygritte do the deed…does she do you, or do you actually do her?”

Robb chokes on his shot, eyes bugging out. He coughs violently, howling laughter making its way in between his hacking. Jon puts his shot glass down and scowls so deep that Theon fears it will be set in stone on his face. “Very funny, Theon. That’s the sort of class I expect from you.”

“It actually is quite funny,” Theon snickers, snorting in an undignified manner.

He’s too drunk to care. Too drunk to watch what he says, to know when he is walking a fine line.

Jon’s lips are tight, eyes dark and fathomless. “You know, I also have something funny to share. About you. And a nightclub.”

The sensation those words bring is like surfacing for air in the middle of a frozen lake. Unpleasant and brings everything into sharp focus, bitingly so. A gross feeling covers Theon, like a large pile of phlegm stuck in the back of his throat, tasting like bacteria and slime. _He can’t know. He doesn’t._

Theon forces a grin onto his face, suddenly beginning to feel sober. “Oh yeah? I’m always clubbing, gotta keep the bitches happy. Gotta keep my reputation, ya know.”

Jon talks in that precise way of his, low and pointed. “You see, I heard it’s not a bitch you’re seeing.”

Lightning zings between Theon and Jon, eyes narrowed.

“Okaaay,” Robb says, sky colored eyes darting between the pair. “I feel like I’m not in on this conversation.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Theon snaps tightly, feeling his body tense. “You’re talking out of your ass.”

_How did he find out? What the fuck does Jon know?_

“Oh, do you not want to hear it anymore?” Jon says darkly, eyes narrowing. “My apologies, I thought it was funny. I guess our idea of humor differs.” With that, Jon grabs his lone shot and downs it triumphantly before leaving the bar to go break apart Gendry and Arya.

Robb sits down on Jon’s abandoned stool. “What the hell was that about?”

Theon fumes silently, glowering at Jon from across the room. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

* * *

 

Friday night comes, but Theon doesn’t go to the _Dreadfort Nightclub_. All week, since that night, he hasn’t had the urge, remembers how down he felt, how locked in a hellhole of memories he had been. Remembers how miserable he was in the aftermath. Frankly, he’s also quite mortified with the fact that he pissed himself like a terrified schoolboy in front of another man.

He can’t bear the idea of going back.

By 8PM, his phone beeps while he’s munching on some fast food, watching tv alone. He unlocks his phone screen, expecting to see something from Robb about going out again, but it’s from Bolton instead.

_Are you coming tonight?_

Theon stares at the words, imagines those haunting pale eyes and that wicked smile. Despite wanting to feel compelled to go, all he feels is broken inside. _I’m not,_ he texts back.

For a minute he doesn’t get a response back, figures Bolton will just let it go with that like last time, but his message screen shows that Bolton is in the process of typing something. When the response comes, Theon scowls.

 _I’m sorry,_ Bolton’s message reads, _I didn’t realize Theon Greyjoy was such a delicate girl._

Theon feels something for the first time that week and what he feels is burning his insides to ashes. How dare that piece of shit call him a girl? He literally let him cut him up, humiliate him, and stab him without once begging him to stop. Theon isn’t a fucking girl; he just doesn’t want to deal with Ramsay _fucking_ Bolton anymore. _Fuck you,_ Theon texts back with angry jabs of his fingers, _if I come back, I’m working with Kyra anyway._

Not a moment passes when Theon’s ringtone starts blasting, the surprise of it nearly making Theon drop his phone. Bolton is calling him. Theon stares and stares, doesn’t know what to do for a minute. Then he lets himself settle into his anger; anger is good.

This guy sent him back to a dark place, made him feel like a little boy again, useless and a failure who couldn’t save his brothers from being killed in front of him. Theon answers the call, but before he can say a word, Ramsay is snarling at him on the other end. “What the FUCK, Greyjoy? What is the FUCKING problem?”

Theon is momentarily blown over; he’s not entirely sure he’s heard the cool and collected man curse like that before. “There isn’t-”

“Shut your mouth. I’m not done,” Bolton growls, a wolverine with deadly claws. “Did I scare you so bad that you’ll play with Kyra now then, huh? Your girlfriend? Is that it? Did I push you too hard? She’ll be nice to you, won’t she? She’ll treat you like you’re a sweet little boy, one that needs coddling?”

“Hey, asshole-”

“Did I break you that easily, Greyjoy? Yeah? You’re crawling back to Mommy now? Ironborn? _Hah_. What a joke. You’re _pathetic_.”

_ Memories of his father backhanding him as a boy, Theon running to go find his mother. “Run, run little boy. Go cry to your Mommy,” Balon sneers. “I didn’t raise you to be a little girl.” _

The sneering voice twists Theon’s belly inside out and he flushes red. “I’m not!”

“ _Then take the hint and get the FUCK over here._ ”

Theon holds the phone away from his ear in shock, staring at it blankly as the line goes dead. _He wants me back? Bad enough to call me? What universe is this?_

He sits there in silence, contemplates. He’s surprised, actually. Bolton wants him back badly enough to demand he return to him. Theon isn’t sure why though, it isn’t like Bolton has a shortage of clients to torment.

But strangely, Theon feels a tug in his chest, beside all the scabs on his body. Something is unfinished, something has been left unsaid. He needs the closure. No one fucks with Theon Greyjoy and just gets away with it.

Speaking aloud to no one in particular, Theon says, “I can’t believe I’m going back to that goddam douchebag.”

He cabs it over to the _Dreadfort_ _Nightclub_ shortly after, cursing himself out the whole way.

Theon Greyjoy is no coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a beast of a chapter and I really did not get to all that I wanted yet...so technically this is part I of a much larger chapter. The slow burn is still in effect...but I'm telling you that my magic crystal ball is sensing smut coming soon, I swear :P
> 
> If you need some Thramsay smut now, go over to "The Outcome". That turned into my smut outlet while writing this fic, seeing as the slow burn is killing me too people!
> 
> The next update WILL BE DELAYED. I had to spend a bit of time on another fic this week to finish it out (aka, The Outcome), so Chapter 10 here will come out late.


	10. Monsters of the Same Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon forgets a crucial piece in the puzzle of life: Never forget that a monster is a monster, even when they tone down their true nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. All belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> **AN:** Alright, I totally did not expect to get this out today, due to work literally being insane all week long. However, once again, this got split in half...ah well. I can tell you, next chapter will be a big hitter though XD I just didn't have time to flesh it out in this part and get it out today...it wouldn't have been quality and I don't want to rush something like that out. 
> 
> If you have to lay the blame somewhere, blame it on "The Outcome"...the final chapter took a crapload of time XD If you need a smut fix though, go read that. The final chapter went off the rails raunchy.
> 
> Also, watch out. There is some 'forced feminization' kink in this chapter. Very SLIGHT. I'm tasting it for a bit, seeing how I like it.

When he arrives at the _Dreadfort Nightclub_ , Theon pulls out the entrance fee from his wallet with irritated motions, but the bouncer shakes his head. “The Dungeon Master says you enter free.”

The people behind Theon mutter complaints, whispering to each other. He feels the burn of their eyes on his back, knows they are wondering why he gets a free pass. Slowly, he puts the bills back in his wallet and steps forward, into the club, tries to ignore the way people are judging him. Everyone knows who the Dungeon Master is, after all.

“Wonder what do you have to do to have the DM let you in without paying? Must be a twisted bitch,” some guy sneers in line as the door shuts behind Theon.

Just feeling the darkness and music around Theon makes him feel anxious again, his body intuitively remembering the last time he had been here. The kiss of the blade is written into his flesh, a story that can’t be untold or forgotten.

He can’t forget the horror and the terror, the shame and humiliation just as close to the surface in his mind. While the horror of the situation repels him, the shame pulls Theon back in just as quick. What’s wrong with him, the way he loves how Bolton demeans him?

Dany glides by with a man wearing a leash, a ball gag in his mouth. Theon quirks his eyebrows with intrigue. “Hey, Ball Buster. What…is he?”

The Breaker of Chains does her slow smile, eyes cool. “He’s exactly what he wants to be at the moment. A dog.”

Theon nods like he understands what this means, but he doesn’t. “Have you seen Bolton around?”

Violet eyes cut over to the dog man. She commands, “Sit. Stay.” The man promptly sits on the ground and Dany looks over Theon with an appraising glance. “Last I heard, he served you up raw.”

_ Blood, flowing down his skin, the sensation of cold as his skin splits open at the seams.  _

Rubbing his neck, Theon replies quietly, “He did. Knives, if that’s what you mean.”

Her eyebrows rise slightly at his words. “And you still came back?”

“He told me to-”

“Ha. What does that matter? He’s not your master, but if you aren’t careful, he’s going to want to be. Most of his clients don’t come back after the bodily injury starts. But here you are. I admire your balls. From afar, of course.”

Rolling his eyes, Theon says, “I’m not here to stay. I need to set some boundaries with him if we are going to continue.”

She laughs at him, mouth wide and red. “Boundaries? Good luck. I’m warning you, just end this now. This road doesn’t end where you think it will. There are other people who are far safer and more human that you can work with. There are other sadists out there.”

_But they won’t be him,_ Theon thinks and distantly knows he won’t end things tonight even though common sense demands that he does.

Dany shakes her head with a disappointed air. “It’s your life. He’s upstairs in the VIP lounge level. Waiting for you, no doubt.” She tugs on the leash of the man sitting on the ground beside her. “Up. Let’s go, dog. We’ll leave Theon to his torrid BORK affair.” They walk away, Dany looking like a Queen leading a canine behind her.

_Whatever,_ Theon scoffs.

Making his way to the winding stairs that go upwards, Theon comes across the second level bar and the platform there that is currently being used by a pair of people paddling a woman on her knees. He’s been on this level before. _Not sure where this VIP lounge is,_ Theon muses before walking over to the bar to ask the bartender where to go.

She points him towards a corner area that has some hidden stair behind the wall. They lead upwards yet again and it’s then that Theon notices another open level above in the darkness. The VIP level is at the top of the club, the center open with railing so that the people there can look down at both the second and first levels. _This place is insane,_ Theon muses as he climbs those stairs until he is stopped by another big man, arms crossed over his giant chest.

“VIP access only,” the giant says in gruff voice.

_Well, I guess I’ve found the fucking VIP lounge._

“I was told to come up here. The Dungeon Master is here, right?” Theon says, annoyed.

The beast of a man pushes Theon back. “You don’t have access. Name drop all you like; I’m not letting you pass.”

Just beyond the mountain man, Bolton appears, wearing a dark button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up, a crimson tie loose around his neck, and black slacks. His watch glitters in the dark as he examines Theon from around the bulk of the bouncer. “Let him in. He’s mine.”

Theon wants to snarl, ‘ _I’m not yours’_ , but he keeps his mouth shut, teeth clenched hard. The very sight of him brings back awful memories.

The bouncer steps aside and lets Theon pass by. Theon gives him a dirty look, making his way to Bolton’s side. When he approaches Bolton, the other man gives him a displeased look, one that Theon can’t quite decipher. After all, what the fuck reason does Bolton have to be irritated with Theon?

_Especially after what he did._

Jerking his head to the left, Bolton leads Theon over to the VIP bar, stocked with nothing cheap. The glass bar has all sort of blades and medieval weapons beneath it on display, candles flickering on the walls and mounted behind the bar. “Give him whatever he wants,” Bolton tells the bartender, a woman with flaming red hair and gratuitous cleavage spilling out of her strappy corset.

Theon stares at those tits as he orders his drink of choice. He picks a pricey whiskey, just to stick it to Bolton. Bolton orders a red wine, taking it over to some fancy black lounge couches overlooking the club. He sits down and gestures for Theon to do the same. Theon goes to sit on the opposite side of the couch, but Bolton snaps his fingers and points to his feet.

Scoffing, Theon sneers, “Are you serious? _Really_?” He’s already mad at the guy and he doesn’t need him snapping his fingers at him like a servant.

Bolton gives him a look that clearly states he fully intends for Theon to sit at his feet. He spreads his legs wide and gestures between them with a bob of his chin. “Do as I ask, Greyjoy.”

Anger and rage course through Theon’s spine, his hand clenching around his whiskey glass as he stares down at Bolton. The other man takes a sip of his wine, eyes never leaving Theon’s.

There are other people in this VIP lounge, assorted people dressed in fancy power suits and others who are dressed in just leather straps, ball gags in their mouths. These must be the special, serious customers at the club, the ones who get the special service. All of them get to witness this power play and Theon hates them all indiscriminately.

With an ugly look, he sits down on the ground, makes sure to not touch the other man as he does. Theon makes a point not to touch him, in fact. Bolton notices. He waits for Bolton to say something to him, but he remains silent, the air between them tense and unpleasant. It reminds Theon of any time he’s had a fight with a girl and she pretends everything is alright, even when it isn’t. He feels like he’s in that exact situation, but with another man.

He thinks of things to say, thinks of ways to start a fight, to bring up the subject of how pissed off he is about last time, but Bolton finally sighs roughly, sipping his wine. Bolton asks lowly, “Was that fun?”

_Of all the things he could have said, that’s what he opens with?_ Theon thinks _, Come on!_

“Was what fun? Fucking girls is _fun_. Drinking is _fun_. I have a lot of _fun_ , you’ll need to be specific,” Theon says nastily, gulping his whisky down far too quickly.

Bolton closes his legs a bit, his thighs pressing against Theon from both sides as he does so. Forcing contact, something unusual for him. Theon notices it with painful clarity, everywhere they touch bringing him stinging awareness. The other man sounds unamused as he continues, “Making me chase after you. Did that entertain you?”

The question is shocking, causes Theon to stare down into his drink without actually seeing. “I didn’t make you do anything. I _can’t_ make you do anything you don’t want to do. You’ve made that fucking clear.”

Theon twists around a bit, trying to see the man sitting behind him. Ramsay isn’t looking at him; he’s taking a sip from his wine, eyes scanning the VIP lounge with false interest. “You didn’t come back.”

_You cut me up and literally scared the piss out of me, but your ass is hurt over the fact that I didn’t come back? Give me a break. How unreasonable can you be, asshat?_ Theon can’t even contain how ticked he is over this.

“Oh, I’m sorry; am I supposed to be here at all times? At your beck and call? Fucking hell, man. That isn’t us and you know it.” It’s absolutely irritating, having this conversation, like they’ve had a lover’s spat. Except, they aren’t lovers and Bolton tied Theon up and cut him with a knife last time.

“You always come back of your own free will,” Bolton says coldly, still not looking at Theon. “I’d wondered what the change in habit was.”

Gritting his teeth, Theon glowers up at the other man, his neck hurting from twisting around to look at him. “Maybe I just didn’t feel like coming back. _Maybe_ you bore me.”

This finally gets a reaction and Bolton’s body tenses subtly.

“I’m well aware that isn’t the case,” Ramsay says, finally looking at Theon, down the line of his nose. An arrogant, distant look. “Is my boy planning on telling me what had his pussy all in a twist last time?”

Theon flushes, feels his stomach twist at the possessive note in his tone. The more he stares into those icy eyes, the more his body heats. His self-disgust knows no boundaries, clearly. “You know what happened.”

“I cut you a bit.”

“ _A bit_?” Theon snarls, red hot anger flashing in his chest. “You sliced me and blindfolded me, played fucking mind games with me. You fucking made me think you were going to stab me to death!”

A ghost of a smirk shapes Ramsay’s lips, his eyes trailing over Theon’s form lazily. “You’re a terrorhound; I thought you would enjoy it.”

Theon can’t meet that gaze, it’s too intimate talking about something like this, talking about how helpless he felt, how small and scared. “I…I did enjoy it. I do enjoy it.”

It feels like losing, admitting this fault in his chemistry, in his biology. Terror sends him into a mindless state and he loves it, his body riding adrenaline like a good lay. Better than a good lay.

“Then what was the problem? I didn’t think I hurt you. Not that bad, anyway.”

Theon downs his whiskey, nearly chokes on the intense burn as it slides down his throat. He needs more, he needs so much more for this. “I guess it’s not the pain. Or the fear. It just…past shit. One of my brother’s was stabbed to death in front of me and your mindfuck brought that forward. I guess I just…had some PTSD or some shit.”

Bolton is quiet for a minute, staring down at him with a penetrating look. The bass from below is creeping up to their floor, getting louder as the night goes on. “So, it wasn’t the knife then?”

Well, of course the knife screwed with Theon’s head. But it was situational, not just the knife itself. Having someone tie you up and threaten to stab you should be enough to send anyone to pieces. “You basically threatened to stab me. Then started talking about watching people die. Don’t threaten me like that again,” Theon says plainly, flatly. “I won’t come back again if you do. Ever.”

Out of nowhere, Bolton’s hand makes its way to the back of Theon’s neck, the skin on skin contact jolting Theon. Ramsay leans down, mouth just behind Theon’s ear. Electric. “Fine,” he grits out, “I won’t threaten to kill _you_. And not with a knife. Is that acceptable?”

The way he says it has layers that Theon can’t possibly understand. Theon nods mutely, acutely aware of the body leaning over his. “I need to hear your big boy words, Greyjoy,” Ramsay whispers, darkness in Theon’s eardrum.

Exhaling, feeling like he’s giving himself over to a monster, Theon replies slowly, “If we do this, if we keep doing this, I want…I want a safe word or some shit.”

A weird look crosses Bolton’s face. His eyes go up and to the left, considering something. “Go ahead and pick one if it makes you feel…safe.”

“Ironborn,” Theon says instantly.

Ramsay snorts, sitting back to sip his wine again. He looks like some elegant lord, the bad kind though, the kind that would sentence you to your death with a smile. His hair is like night and his eyes are the kind that haunt Theon’s nightmares. The dark crimson tie is loose around his neck, top buttons undone, almost casual and lazy. Relaxed.

“Are we good, then?” Bolton asks lightly, swirling his wine in his glass. “No more hurt feelings?”

“Yes.” It’s like a weight off of Theon’s chest, no longer needing to feel the burden of being pissed off. They’ve come to terms and that’s okay for now.

“Yes, _what_?”

Theon groans loudly, head tipping back in exasperation. “Yes, _Sir_.”

“I’m glad that’s settled. Now take off your shirt. I want to see my marks,” Ramsay says, leaning back into the couch cushions, staring down at Theon.

“Arrogant bastard,” Theon mutters under his breath as he pulls his shirt up over his head.

“What was that?” Bolton asks in dangerous tone.

“I said, as you please, _Sir_.” Theon snarks back.

Theon’s chest is an assortment of scars and scabs, still slowly healing. Ramsay’s eyes hungrily take in every mark, every change he made in Theon’s flesh. His eyes linger longer than they should and Theon looks away, feels like a piece of meat. “Can I put my shirt back on, _Sir_?”

“Oh, no. Leave the shirt off. There are so many nice people who want to see your lovely cuts,” Bolton says flippantly.

Scowling, Theon looks around the vicinity. With a flash of embarrassment, he notices a few other groups of people in the VIP lounge have been watching them from their perches at the bar or from their spots on the various other couches. As if noticing his begrudging gaze, a woman in a dark red dress gets up from her group and approaches them. Ramsay nods to her in greeting.

“Is this one yours, Bolton?” The woman asks, her darkened lips curling in amusement. “Where have you been hiding him? He looks like a delicious handful. Look at that glare, what stunning eyes.”

Theon scowls, holds his tongue. He doesn’t enjoy being spoken of like he’s livestock.

Ramsay closes his thighs tighter around Theon, using his free hand to pull back on one of Theon’s shoulders to expose his chest more. “He’s in training. A little rough around the edges, doesn’t listen too well either. We play privately.”

Her blue eyes are tracing over the marks on Theon’s body, desire in her gaze. Hunger, like she wants to eat Theon for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“Look at those marks,” the woman says with a touch of awe, reaching forward suddenly, her fingers hovering over Theon’s skin. “Does he enjoy the knife play? Looks like he didn’t even flinch, these incisions are precise. Your skill is, as always, exceptional.”

A warm hand carts through Theon’s hair and his scalp tingles at the touch. Bolton says, “He’s a good boy, when he wants to be. He takes the blade well.”

Theon flushes slightly, hears the affection in the tone. With that tenor of voice, Bolton may as well have said Theon took his cock well instead of a blade.  The woman is looking at him with great interest, her eyes covetous. “I haven’t had a sub that allows knife play in quite some time. At least, not to this extent. Would you mind if your sub joined me on the platform? I won’t do much…but I do miss the blood.”

Something cold and disgusting slithers down into Theon’s belly at her words. The idea of a stranger’s hands on him against his will once again…it causes nausea to fill his stomach. Bile rises in his throat like trash overflowing in a garbage can, stinking and repulsive. Theon cranes his head back to look up at Ramsay, who is already staring down at him. His eyes are like open wounds, cutting Theon down. _Please no, please don’t do that to me again, don’t let someone else have me,_ Theon tries to covey with his own gaze.

Theon knows. Somehow, Theon knows that if he begs aloud in front of this woman, Ramsay will do it. He’ll give Theon to her out of spite. For presuming to beg that Ramsay _not_ do something.

The other man is looking down at him, his eyes half-mast. Considering. For a moment, hellfire rises in those eyes and Theon swears he can see coals burning there in that gaze. A cacophony of screams rise up in Theon as he stares at those pale orbs, knows the depths that the other man can easily sink to. Knows that the other finds pleasure in his misery.

The nature of a true sadist.

“It would be rather ill mannered of me to show him off to you like this and not let you play,” Bolton says, still staring down at Theon, who pales at the words.

_No no no no no no no please no you just promised not to go too far with knives, this is too far, please don’t make me use my safeword like this I want to be good, but I can’t do this, not again_

A strangled whine dies in Theon’s throat, he tries to keep it hidden the best he can, but he doesn’t want to go under the knife again, he just _can’t_. He doesn’t want this strange woman to see the way his skin parts at the seams, the way he grits his teeth against the pain.

The woman steps forward, ever closer, both hands now reaching for Theon. He backs into Ramsay, stupidly, as if that will save him from this fate. Just as her hands are about to grab onto Theon, Ramsay chuckles to himself, shaking his head. The sound is oddly self-depreciating. He wraps an arm around Theon’s front, pulling him back against his crotch.

“Alas. I _am_ rather jealous of him. Sorry,” Ramsay says, not sounding sorry in the least, a slight laugh in his words. “But I can’t stand seeing anyone else’s marks on him. You’ll have to find someone else.”

The woman pouts in disappointment. “A pity. But I understand that. I’d be tightfisted over one like this too. I do hope you demonstrate with him sometime; I do love watching a man submit to another.”

The hand reaching for Theon retracts quickly and Theon sags against the warmth of Ramsay thigh, panting, sweating. Disbelief and relief pour through him and he buries his face in his master’s leg so that he doesn’t have to look at the woman as she murmurs her disappointment and leaves.

Luckily, no one else approaches them, most likely noting the way Bolton turned the other woman down. They sit together silently, another glass of whiskey brought over by the bartender for Theon without him needing to ask. He likes that kind of service. Who wouldn’t?

Eventually, Theon wonders if Bolton has some other plans for the night or not.

“Are we going to go downstairs?” Theon can’t help but ask; aside from a woman wanting to cut him to ribbons, the night has been rather tame.

Ramsay’s hand cups the front of Theon’s throat, a heavy weight, but not cutting off his air. Just a controlling, possessive touch that Theon finds himself leaning into eagerly, against his better judgement. Theon’s head tilts back just enough so that the Dungeon Master can make direct eye contact. “So hard to please, aren’t you? I thought we’d stay up here tonight. Or is that not good enough for _my boy_?”

Something comes to life inside of Theon, like a bear awaking from hibernation. Arousal, potent and jarring, a snake unfurling from a coil. He closes his eyes briefly, lest the other man see it in his gaze, the emotion staring out like a salivating dog. “Why do you say things like that to me?”

Ramsay leans forward, bent over Theon’s form. He uses his hand to tilt Theon’s head slightly, so he can whisper in his ear. “Because you like it. And I like how humiliated you look whenever I do.”

Theon opens his eyes, meets that hurricane gaze.

“That’s the look. The one you’re making right now.” Ramsay says lowly, the dim lighting playing games on his face. “You love the humiliation. You put on this expression, like we’ve just been caught fucking by all your best friends, but you like it too much to stop.”

“Oh, God,” Theon croaks, _staring staring staring_ into that soul consuming gaze.

For a minute, they stare into each other’s eyes and something passes between them; Theon isn’t sure what. Bolton is blinking down at him, mouth slightly open, eyes dark. If he leaned down farther, his lips could touch Theon’s skin. Whatever he sees in Theon’s gaze makes him smirk slightly, but not unkindly.

“Stop looking at me like that, you filthy girl,” Ramsay says, voice slightly hoarse, attractively so. “Unless you want to find yourself bent over the nearest bar, showing the whole club your ass. I might even be persuaded to let someone else paddle it for you.”

Flushing at being called a girl, indignant, Theon opens his mouth to retort. “I thought you were too jealous to let other Doms play with me? Or was that a lie… _Sir_?”

Strong fingers grip his chin and cheeks hard, bruising as Bolton leans forward. “It wasn’t. But think of all the fun we could have when I’m angry, after watching someone else play with my toy? Do you have any idea how much it ticks me off to think of someone else touching you? Look what happened last time…”

Oh. Theon had called him to tell him about the groupie’s…oh…

That’s when Theon sees it. The telltale shift of Bolton’s hips. Distantly, Theon recognizes it for what it is; a guy shifting in his attempt to adjust his hard-on without the use of his hands. Theon’s breathing goes shallow, like a girl about to orgasm, and he quickly turns away. He doesn’t know how to react. If it had been any other guy, he would have flipped his mind, been completely repulsed…but now. Now he finds himself lost, strangely enjoying it, likes feeling like he has some sort of power over the more dominant man.

Theon stares out to the below floor, people-watching; and there is a vast assortment to watch. Tries to not think about how he’s aroused as well. It’s just a fluke. That’s all.

With the music thrumming loudly, dark and atmospheric, Theon suddenly feels like the world only exists for the two of them, allowing them to look down at the peasants dancing below. A lord and his hound.

Strangely, for the first time in his life, Theon truly feels like he is owned. 

* * *

 

When Theon next returns to the club, Bolton tells him they are indeed going to do a demonstration.

“I figure we should start out…slow. Easy. After last time,” Bolton says, mocking laughter in his gaze. “Best to be in public. Can’t get carried away as easily.”

“I…ah…in front of people…? Okay…”

So, this is where Theon finds himself. He’s lying on his stomach on a table at the performance platform, shirtless, feeling the distinct sensation of many pairs of eyes on him. A dark purple spotlight is on him and everyone else in thrown in darkness. He feels like the only one visible in this entire club, even though he knows that isn’t true.

There are other playrooms and platforms for people to observe, but everyone wants to see what Bolton does, considering he never generally plays publicly. Usually, he keeps to his cave, his dark dungeon, letting subs crawl out with broken wings and torn souls.

Not tonight, it appears.

Bolton is standing next to Theon’s prone form, a bored expression on his face as his pale eyes scan the crowd. “Look at the scavengers, all eager to watch you scream.”

“Am I going to? Ah…Sir?”

Ash grey eyes flicker down to look at Theon briefly. “Maybe. Have to keep it rather tame for the public. I’m sure you’ll be bored. I know I already am.”

Bolton snaps his fingers at one of the girls working. She rushes over and he whispers something to her. Theon doesn’t watch as she scurries off to go do the Dungeon Master’s bidding. “Place your hands on the edges of the table. Do not move your hands from their place, no matter what I do,” Bolton tells Theon as the girl returns with a tray of all sorts of colored candles and a towel.

A match box beside them.

The skin of Theon’s back prickles instantly and not from the cold.

Ramsay lights a match and start lighting the candles one by one, the flames dancing. Distantly, Theon hears Ramsay explaining to the audience the types of candles that should be used for wax play based on heat thresholds, along with how the height from which the wax falls can change temperature on the canvas.

Hah. Canvas. Theon’s back more like.

After a few moments of listening to the tenor of Bolton’s voice, Theon finally senses as he comes to stand beside Theon once more, the tray set beside them on a side table. Bolton tests the wax on his own wrist first, eyes not even registering discomfort at the sensation. He gazes down at Theon, meeting his eyes. “Let’s begin. Remember, keep your hands where they are. If you move them, I’ll flip you over and put the wax on your balls.”

People gasp in the crowd and Theon clenches his hands harder on the edge of the table. _No chance, asshole. You are not putting hot wax on my junk,_ Theon thinks scathingly.

Bolton holds the candle high over Theon’s lower back, slowly tipping the blue candle forward until wax begins to drip. The sensation of it landing on Theon’s back causes him to inhale sharply, the intense burning sensation a flash of pain. The wax continues to drip over different locations on his back, sliding down his skin, burning as it goes. Even with the instant burning sensation, his skin begins to cool as the wax hardens, a strange feeling.

The pain is not intense though. Theon finds himself tensing his body, but does not find the pain unbearable. Perhaps Bolton has been right; this isn’t an overly thrilling experience. It’s a display more for the patrons of the club than anything.  

As time flows by, Bolton switches candles, different colors, different heights, pouring them in random places on Theon’s back. There is a steady burning sensation, followed by cooling across Theon’s skin now, his whole back being covered with wax. The worst is when Bolton pours the wax close to Theon’s skin, the heat more intense than when poured from a higher distance.

“Look at all the colors! It’s like art,” someone says to Theon’s left.

“That sub is tough, he barely even flinches,” another person says in a hushed tone, but Theon still barely catches it.

“Look who his master is; I’m sure he’s endured worse in the underground room. This is probably child’s play to him. Isn’t that sub familiar though? I swear, I recognize him. Can’t place it though.”

Theon’s back is a mix of sensations now. It’s strange, even as the wax hardens, a fine layer across his flesh. He wonders if he looks like a painting, a myriad of color across his skin. Distantly, he hears people cheer and clap, which he assumes means the demonstration is over.

A few people come up on the platform to get a closer look at Theon’s back. Someone asks if they can touch Theon, but Bolton promptly tells the woman ‘no’. This is acceptable to Theon, not feeling like having strange hands examining his body; they’ve already seen it on display.

The people are a blur around him. The only thing he focuses on is Ramsay’s hand as it tangles in his hair. Ramsay leans down close, his cologne invading Theon’s senses comfortingly. His lips press to Theon’s ear, grinning. “What a good boy you are.”

The words alone make Theon’s body sag into relaxation, the burning, cooling, and hardening sensations on his back becoming background noise.

Bolton pulls away slowly and returns to the tray beside the table. He lifts the towel that is there, exposing a pocketknife.

_Oh. Should have known. Fuck. Keep it together. Keep it together, Theon._

Despite telling himself to keep calm, Theon feels his muscles begin to shake, body going weak.

With a wild grin, Bolton holds up the knife to the crowd, saying cheerily, “And now I’ll show you a fun way to remove the wax from a subs body. You can, of course, just peel the wax off, but where is the thrill in that?”

Gasps of delight and cheers are a dull roar in Theon’s ears.

Theon swallows the whine that builds in his throat, his hands tightening on the ends of the table, gripping so hard that his joints ache. His body begins to shake as Bolton returns to his side. He presses a finger into the hard wax, watching as Theon groans low in his chest.

“Try not to move. The point isn’t to cut you, but, things happen, don’t they?” His voice is mocking, cruel. “I might get excited, who knows? You bleed so nicely, after all.”

Theon squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his heart in his throat. Theon does his best to keep his mind in place, tries to not let it fly away into nothing. The first time he feels the cool of the blade against his flesh he nearly collapses into himself.

In the end, Ramsay doesn’t cut him, not even once.

* * *

 

“I can’t come tonight. I’m traveling to a few shows this week,” Theon says into his phone as he packs his bags.

“Is that so?” Ramsay sounds irritated, though it’s hard to tell. He hides his emotions well when he feels like it.

“Uh, yeah, it is.”

“Don’t get snippy with me. Fine. You can go,” Ramsay says flatly, displeasure now clear as day.

Theon almost laughs in disbelief. He’s _allowed_ to go? “You know, I don’t need your permission to do shows with the band. You do realize that, right? I’m the lead singer!”

A dangerous pause. “How about this then, if you want to play smartass with me. Don’t you let a single fucking groupie play with you. Not once. I’ll know. I hate seeing marks on your body from someone else.”

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Theon stares at it in confusion, brow furrowed. “Did you just tell me I can’t fuck groupies? That’s like telling me not to breathe.”

Bolton’s voice takes an ugly turn. “I didn’t say you couldn’t. Go ahead, fuck them. But you’ll want to be dominated, hurt, and humiliated. That’s not for them to give you. That’s for _me_. I’ll know because I know your body, Greyjoy. It’s _mine_.”

The words leave Theon unable to breathe for a moment, not sure he’s ever had someone else feel that way about his body in general. Theon’s body is his, but for a moment he isn’t sure anymore.

This very conversation is what leads to Theon being ribbed by Robb as they make their way back to their hotel in The Reach after their show, only a few drinks in. “Dude. Are you sick? Why are you not buried under groupie’s right now?”

Gendry takes a sip from his pocket flask, blue eyes dancing. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend. Got a girlfriend, Theon?”

“No,” Theon slurs. “Ain’t no broad can tie this man down.”

“Not with that grammar, certainly not,” Jon mutters.

“You shut up. Maybe my dick just needs a break.”

Jon rolls his eyes, glances at his phone, most likely looking for texts from Ygritte. “Oh yeah. I’m sure that’s the case. Your dick is just tired. Poor Theon. Or, maybe _Phantom_ has something to do with it.”

Robb pauses, looks confused.

Theon grabs Jon’s phone out of his hand and bolts off, running into one of the alley’s that they pass. Jon chases after angrily, only to come face to face with Theon holding the phone over a dumpster, a sober glare on his face. “Why do you keep hinting at what I think you’re hinting at?”

Jon sighs, shrugging his shoulders. His white shirt pulls tight over his chest, his jeans a nice faded color, giant belt buckle above his crotch. “It’s a rumor, Theon. You’re lucky Robb hasn’t heard it yet. He’d want to have us do an intervention. Give me my phone back.”

Glowering, Theon says, “No. Not until you answer. What do you fucking know and who is talking?”

Shaking his head with a serious expression, Jon says tiredly, “You’re going to a club, Theon. It’s rather well known. People talk. People see you, you’re hard to miss. The person you’re hanging with is impossible to ignore.”

“ _Who told you_?”

Jon looks away, sighs. “Dany did.”

_That nosey bitch,_ Theon thinks furiously _._ “Wait. You know Dany?”

The expression on Jon’s face turns amused. “Duh.”

Theon does not understand and he isn’t sure he wants to.

* * *

 

When Theon returns the next week, Bolton nearly drags him into his underground room. “Take it all off,” he says curtly.

“Excuse me? Care to lube me up first before bending me over?”

Ramsay rolls his eyes. “Stop exaggerating. All I’m asking for you to do is show me your skin. I want to see if you behaved this past week or not. You know what happens if you didn’t.”

Growling, Theon strips his shirt off and unzips his jeans, letting them fall to the ground. He does a slow turn under Ramsay’s watchful eyes. “Are you pleased? Like what you see?”

Bolton backhands him sharply before grabbing Theon by the shoulders, pushing him up against a wall. “Shut your mouth.”

Despite the aggression, Theon sees the look in his eyes, the thing there that says Bolton wants to keep looking at him.

The scary thing is; Theon wants Bolton to look at him.

And that terrifies him far more than any knife in Bolton’s arsenal.

* * *

* * *

 

It doesn’t happen overnight, but Theon finds himself texting and calling Ramsay more often than not when they are apart. Or, Ramsay calls him, just to check in on what he’s up to. Normally, it would have driven Theon mad to have someone checking up on him in this fashion, keeping tabs on him, but somehow this is different.

There’s a quality to it, like a parent making sure you stay out of trouble. Theon never had that. This is almost that, he thinks. He’s not sure if he’s completely sick, enjoying that Bolton is the strong, guiding hand on the back of his neck.   


* * *

* * *

 

One night, Theon comes by and Bolton’s underground room is shut. He goes to open the door, but the freaking gorilla called Damon stops him. “He’s with another client. Wait your fucking turn, Princess.”

Irritated for reasons unknown, Theon opens both palms in a ‘what the fuck’ gesture. “Who the hell is he in there with?”

It leads to thoughts of, _who is he with when he’s not with me?_

If Bolton gets to demand what Theon does with his body, Theon can very fucking well know what he does with his. “That’s not how this works. We respect privacy here,” Damon says, though Theon knows the statement isn’t entirely true.

“Get out of the way, you heaping pile of trash,” Theon snarls, voice carrying loudly.

A terrified scream from within the room pierces through the door and moments later, Ramsay sticks his head out. He sighs when he catches sight of Theon standing off against Damon. “What are you doing here? I didn’t ask for you to be here.”

“Boo-fucking-hoo, I’m here.”

Displeasure twists Bolton’s face, eyes shadowed. His jaw clenches as he examines Theon for a moment before stepping back into the room. “Fine. Get in here and behave. Sit down somewhere. If you don’t listen to me, I’ll throw you out.”

Theon isn’t sure what he expects to see when he steps into the room, but he certainly isn’t expecting what he does see. A young woman is strapped to the table like a patient on an operating table, like some sort of nightmare gyno office. She’s completely naked, full body on display, her legs tied to stirrups.

“The fuck…” Theon utters in shock as Ramsay sits on a stool between her legs, placing a surgical mask over his nose and mouth.

He artfully snaps latex gloves onto both hands, eyes glittering cruelly.  

“Mina, say hello to Theon,” Ramsay says in that sickeningly sweet tone of his, the fake sweet. “He was getting jealous waiting outside for me, so I let him come in here. He’s going to _watch_. He’s going to make sure I behave how _he_ wants me to behave.”

The end part sounds like a jape, like Ramsay is taunting Theon. “I’m not jealous! And. I…ah…wouldn’t presume to tell you how to behave with a client,” Theon says, almost afraid to speak. “ _Sir_.” He almost forgot.

Bolton gives him an unpleasant look. “Good. That would be unwise. You belong to me, not the other way around.”

It’s then that Theon realizes what this really looks like, how he’d just acted. He had acted like a jealous girlfriend. He’s never come across Ramsay working with anyone else and the idea of it…makes him feel weird. It’s always been an aspect out of sight and out of mind for Theon.

But now…now he needs to know. Needs to know that he is different than all the others. Needs to feel validated, somehow.

Bolton rolls his stool over to his tool countertop, grabs something that has wires connected to a black box by the wall, a box with dials. When he’s back between the woman’s legs, he holds the cylinder-shaped object aloft. It’s shaped like a dildo…but there’s something off about it. Ramsay clips something to it.

_Gross, he not going to fuck her with that in front of me, is he?_

“Mina,” Bolton starts conversationally. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. You thought you could complain to me about my treatment of you. You thought you could spit in my face. I understand the urge, but no deed goes unpunished. I’m sure you’ll learn some respect after this exercise. Real electric play can turn even the most devious painsluts around. And, I’m not talking about a toy store electric wand, sweetheart.”

He thumbs a switch on the black box and the cylinder begins to make a crackling sound, like an electric current. Mina screams just as Theon shouts out, “Holy _fuck_!”

Theon feels his whole body lose blood as the Dungeon Master shoves it into the woman’s vaginal canal. The sounds that tear from her throat are unlike anything Theon has ever heard before. He’s not entirely sure that he’s not screaming with her. He can't even stop himself when he vomits up bile onto the floor, because Bolton told him he couldn't move from his place.  _I hope he doesn't punish me for that,_ Theon thinks as he dry heaves, chest aching. 

Mina's body is shaking madly on the table, convulsing as she wails. Bolton looks like a mad doctor, eyes wide with delight above his surgical mask. He flips off the switch, but Mina keeps shaking, screaming desperately.

Theon feels ill, his own body shaking. He’s never even heard of something like this before! Let alone seen it. “I think she’s had enough, Sir. Look at her…”

Bolton’s eyes cut over to him, uncompromising. “What did you say? Did I hear you ask me to bend you over and try this up your ass?”

Theon’s stomach flies up into his throat and he heaves, gasping. He can’t say no outright; he bites his tongue to keep from saying it. If he says no, he knows Bolton will do it. When he says nothing, Bolton’s eyes crinkle with the smile that is hidden under his mask. “Oh? I guess not. Pity. I’d fuck your boypussy good with it if you wanted me to.”

Theon wants to gag in his general direction, but refrains. That takes a lot of willpower.

Instead, he hates himself watching this poor young woman take the electric current through her body a few more times, sweat pouring off her body. There is no pleasure here, just true torture, though he knows Bolton is aroused, the outline of his cock visible in his pants to Theon’s eyes.

_It’s terrifying how much this shit turns him on,_ Theon thinks vaguely, his mouth dry as he watches the horrible scene in front of him until the end.

_ You’re fucking killing me, oh my God, please stop, I’m going to die, the girl wails _

When it’s finally over, _finally_ , Ramsay has Damon help the girl out to her cab. Before they leave the room, Ramsay says his parting cruel piece. “I trust you’ll keep your spit to yourself next time, huh? Do we have an understanding now?”

The girl only stares at Ramsay, eyes vacant, like she can’t feel anything anymore. Her hair is completely soaked in sweat, she can barely stand, practically letting Damon hold her up. Theon thinks he’s in shock himself and it didn’t even happen to him. He just sat in a corner and let it happen and he hates himself for it. He’s wrong he’s fucking wrong.     

Later, when they are alone, Bolton corners Theon after thoroughly washing his hands and forearms. “What were you trying to accomplish with that stunt?”

Theon doesn’t meet his piercing gaze. He’s come to the realization again that the man beside him is capable of horror, even though he hasn’t exacted it against Theon recently. _How could I have forgotten how dangerous he is?_ “I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything. I…just wanted to se-”

Bolton takes off his surgical mask with a snap of elastic and tosses it in the trash. “I get it. My nasty little girl wanted to be here when daddy got done, because she knows how worked up he gets after torturing pathetic subs. Is that it?”

Theon blinks and turns red, breath shallow. “That…no. That isn’t it at all! I mean, I don’t fucking know…”

Ramsay sits down on his stool again, elbows on his knees as he stares at Theon, pupils wide. “You do know. Don’t play games with me. I’m a sadist; it’s no fucking secret. The pain of others turns me on. You wanted to be here when I got done with another client. Why would that be, I wonder?”

Trying to change the subject, not wanting to face the truth deep inside, Theon snaps, “You fucking tortured that girl! Electricity? What the fuck.”

Bolton’s lips quirk lazily as he stares at Theon. When he speaks next, the cadence of his voice is casual but the words are disquieting. “It’s cute how you act like you care what happened to her. Now…unzip your jeans and take your cock out.”

“My _what_?” He isn’t sure he heard Bolton right. Couldn’t have. Because why on earth would he ever do that? After seeing what he just fucking saw no less?!

The Dungeon Master stands suddenly, stalking over to Theon slowly. “Your cock. You know what that is, I trust?” The tone is mocking and has a slimy quality to it.

“Of course, I fucking know,” Theon says, feeling suddenly out of his depth.

Hell, he’s been out of his depth since he walked into this room earlier.

The backhand doesn’t even surprise him when it comes. His face whips to the side, blood trickling from his lip. Theon groans and Bolton hisses, “What are you forgetting? Do I have to re-teach you everything?”

Blinking his vision straight, Theon spits the blood from his mouth. “I meant, of course, I fucking know, _Sir_.”

The Dungeon Master bodily pushes him against a wall, hands pressing his shoulders in hard. “Then don’t ask stupid questions. When your master wants to see what you are packing, you fucking show him your cock without bitching like a virgin.” Bolton comes ever closer, his lips nearly brushing Theon’s ear with every word. His body is just an inch away from being pressed up against Theon’s and he can feel the heat of him. “Don’t you want to show daddy that toy you’re so proud of? I thought you wanted to be the one to bear the brunt of my attention. Or do I scare you too much now? Is my guy scared again? Do I need to be gentle with you?”

_You goddamn motherfucker,_ Theon thinks with horror, feeling the way heat travels south in his body. He can’t stop how he feels and he hates himself for it.

_You’re a monster, just like him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all of your comments XD I swear the smut is coming soon, but I want to build up the tension AS MUCH AS I EFFIN CAN. Plus, three things have yet to happen. Two of them will happen in the next chapter, the third in the following. Then we can get wild and I do mean wild. You know I don't joke when it comes to my smut writing. 
> 
> Also, if anyone ever wonders what the heck I'm jamming to when I write this fic and you have Spotify, I have a public playlist called "TDM - Fic Music" that you can search for. 
> 
> Another note: when Dany says BORK, she means balls out risky kink, not the political version of the word.


	11. Filth & Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. All belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> **Warnings:** Ignoring safewords, homophobic language, and mentions of Jon's true parentage(spoilers for S5+)
> 
> Also: The lovely **@xxhouse-of-psychopathsxx** has made a few absolutely awesome Collages for this fic over at Tumblr. To see the ones made for this chapter, head over to Tumblr via the links below! Check them out, these set the mood, OMG. I love them and am so flattered that **@xxhouse-of-psychopathsxx** took the time to make them! THANK YOU MY DEAR!  
> [Filth & Lies Image Collage Pt. 1](https://xxhouse-of-psychopathsxx.tumblr.com/post/185486455014/the-dugeon-master-written-by-evilpeaches-on)  
> [Filth & Lies Image Collage Pt. 2](https://xxhouse-of-psychopathsxx.tumblr.com/post/185486539239/the-dungeon-master-written-by-evilpeaches-on)

Red colors Theon’s face in a rush, he feels so warm suddenly he can barely stand it. _Why does he have to say disgusting shit like that?_ Theon can smell that cologne that he likes so much and he can feel arousal pool low in his belly against his own judgement, even through his screaming nerves.

_This man is a beast in human skin and has a mouth filthier than sin, but you’re sick enough to be okay with that, aren’t you?_

The Dungeon Master steps back from Theon, open palms out at his sides with an expectant look on his face. The expression clearly says, _I’m waiting._

Utter humiliation pours through Theon, eating at his pride. He stares at the complete bastard in front of him, eyes begging for Bolton to change his mind. The Dungeon Master’s eyes glitter hungrily, seeing the horror and reluctance in Theon’s gaze.

“What the hell? I’m not…”

Those lips twist into a sneer with ease. Bolton simpers, “You’re not a fag? Did I ask you to be?”

The question floor Theon momentarily, lips dry. “Well, no…Sir…”

“What did I ask you? No, actually, what did I tell you to do?” His eyes are like the pits of hell, fire burning there above the ashes.

“To…take my…co…co-” He choking on the words, feels his throat locking up, like being stuck in a vise.

“What? Can’t say it? Cock, Greyjoy. Take your fucking cock out now. Otherwise, you and I can always pick up where I left off with lovely Mina. Not sure you’ll like the electricity, but _I will_ and that’s really all that matters, hm?”

Cold settles over Theon as he stares into those eyes and knows…he knows that Bolton doesn’t joke around when it comes to things like this. He’ll get what he wants, one way or another. Theon tells himself that he chose this, he chose to be here with this man, he can salvage this, just do what he wants.

Bolton is more agreeable when Theon _just does as he is told_.

That’s the game. That’s the _point_. To submit against his will. Lose grip on that control that isn’t quite so ironclad to begin with. Sink into that humiliated senselessness that makes him feel dirty and wanting all at once. He’s vile, but Theon just can’t stop.

_ …and I can always pick up where I left off with lovely Mina _

Theon shudders at the thought, the words that are subtle threats on Bolton’s tongue.

Above all, Theon cannot let his mind wrap around the object Bolton had used on the woman before, cannot let himself think about how much agony she must have been in as he sat and watched in horror, unable to save her. The sounds of her screams, the way sweat had poured off her body…he cannot stomach the idea of taking on that pain.

Bolton is watching him, eyes half-mast. Watching every emotion and fear play out on Theon’s face like a scene in a movie.

_He loves how much you don’t want to do this. Your reluctance turns him on,_ Theon thinks numbly as his fingers grasp the zipper of his jeans and pulls down. The sound is excruciatingly loud in the silent room. He can hear Bolton’s breathing change with the action, pick up pace.

Black eyebrow lift expectantly as Theon hesitates once again. Bolton is always waiting and Theon is always dragging his heels. Sweat dribbles down Theon’s spine, heart pounding so hard that he feels like dying.

He shift his hips a bit as he lowers his jeans a more, still leaving his modesty in tact with his boxers in place.

Theon isn’t hard; he’s ridiculously nervous. In fact, he’s glad that he isn’t hard; that would just be embarrassing, the epitome of humiliation. He still has no idea what Bolton’s intentions are and being exposed to him leaves Theon feeling completely vulnerable. The other man had legitimately tortured a woman in front of Theon only a little while ago; how is he supposed to feel?

_The normal reaction would be to run, but you’re frozen in place with your dick about to be out. Smart, Theon. You win all the prizes that dumb people deserve._

The other man takes his place on his chair again, elbow on his knee, chin resting on his curled fingers with a relaxed air, in control once again. His other arm is lying across his lap, fingers tapping soundlessly on his thigh. He’s assured that Theon is under his power, his to command as he pleases. His predatory eyes are watching as Theon pulls himself from his boxers, sliding his jeans down fully now.

Theon may not be hard, but he’s still impressive even so. He’s always been rather proud of that. He can barely look at the other man, feeling like he’s on inspection. He’s almost terrified that Bolton won’t be happy with what he sees. The man has no limits when it comes to expressing his displeasure, after all.

Bolton’s gives him a half-lidded look, a sneer teasing his upper lip as he catches Theon’s gaze finally. “I suppose you expect me to be impressed, knowing you.”

Theon licks his lips, looks down anxiously. With anyone else, he would have played it up, bragged. Not with this man, Theon wouldn’t dare. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to be impressed by. Sir.”

He has to bite his tongue to keep from saying ‘Fucking Sir’ instead of just ‘Sir’. Bolton hates when Theon tries to get around paying his respect appropriately when he uses profanity while addressing him.

The other man rolls his eyes at Theon submissive response, snorting. His gaze returns to Theon’s exposed genitals, eyeing his crotch silently. Sweat drips down Theon’s spine, nervous. _What does he want to do to me? Is he…going to hurt me…there? Please no, anything but that._

Bolton says nothing, though he eventually gets up and goes to one of his infamous drawers and pulls out a string of sorts, a ball of yarn by the looks of it. He futzes with it for a moment, looking at the length before cutting it.

He walks back to Theon, wrapping the yarn or thread or whatever it is, around his fingers aimlessly. “Not that you need an ego boost, but that is a rather nice size. I bet the ladies enjoy it, though I imagine it takes some finesse to not make it a painful engagement.”

Flushing, Theon licks his lips, eyes the string. Wonders what it’s for. Feels strange, discussing his dick with a man he sees as often as he can. Not sure how he’s going to look him in the face after this encounter. He doesn’t consider Bolton a friend…but what can he consider him? He’s a large part of his life now. Albeit, a secret part. “If you mean I can’t just plow into some women, yes, you’d be correct. I have to be careful sometimes…ah, Sir.”

Bolton’s giving him that sardonic look again when Theon raises his eyes to look at him. He’s standing just a foot away now, playing with the yarn idly. “We’re going to play a lesson in control today. Something you sorely lack, I dare say.”

Theon refrains from clenching his fists. Bolton is so close now, he can smell him. “How…what are we going to do?”

_And why does it involve my dick and balls?_ The mental question hangs in the air, unspoken but certainly felt.

A slight smile, evanescent, like smoke. “I’m going to tie it up and you are going to have to behave until you are told otherwise.”

_Tie…it…up? What the everlasting fuck?_

“Don’t move. And for fuck’s sake, don’t pop a boner while I’m doing this,” Bolton says blandly in reaction to Theon’s horrified expression. “The last thing I want is to be smacked in the face by that thing.”

Bolton pulls his chair close to Theon, sits down in it carefully. He fiddles with his string, finds the center of it and moves quickly, placing the middle of the string behind Theon’s balls. The backs of his hands are warm and they briefly brush Theon’s thighs, the sensation making him shiver.

“Oh, God…” Theon says nervously as the string moves into place, pulls against his sensitive, delicate flesh.

This is terrifying.

With a detached facial expressed, Bolton continues to wrap the string around the front, up and over Theon’s cock, around the base. He pulls the strings snugly and Theon grunts, mouth twisting. This is not how he expected spending his evening.

This man shoved an electric dildo up a woman’s vagina while she screamed that she was ready to die and now the same man is wrapping Theon’s dick and balls up. Wrapping it up in strings. Cutting off circulation. Theon must be insane. He’s out of his friggin mind.

With deft precision, Bolton moves the strings around again, down the center of Theon’s sac, separating the balls from each other, wrapping the string around again. Theon groans, shifts his weight, getting more and more anxious as Bolton continues his nightmare bondage of his junk.

Bolton pauses, looks up at him. Theon is struck by how strange it is to see that face beside his…well…his dick. Kneeling in front of him, like he’s about to give Theon a handjob. But he isn’t. Not really. Every touch on his person thrills Theon, but scares him all at once. He’s so terrified, he doesn’t know what Bolton is going to do once the tie is in place.

Theon’s never heard of something like this.

“Is something the matter?” Sharp white teeth and laughing eyes.

Bolton knows what the problem is, but Theon isn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

There is some slack left in the string and Bolton tests it to make sure it won’t come undone. The large remainder of the thread remains in Bolton’s hand, maybe two feet away from Theon as he slides the chair further away from Theon’s form. Bolton tugs on the slack and Theon feels a touch of nausea at the action, the string tightening around his balls warningly.

“What are you going to do?” Theon asks, mouth going dry.

This is pure vulnerability, his most defenseless parts in control of a dangerous man who has a taste for pain. Bolton’s sneer gets more pronounced as his eyes drift up from Theon’s crotch, trails up his abdomen and finally catches his eyes. “Me? I’m not going to do anything really. You’re going to do all the work. I promise. You’ll probably like it.”

Theon is not sure he likes where this is going, doesn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel here. “Oh…”

The string jerks again and Theon groans tightly. Bolton frowns. “The proper response is to ask me what I want you to do, Greyjoy.”

Panting nervously, Theon asks quickly, “Sorry, S..Sir. What do you want me to do?” Anything to make him relax his grip on that thread around Theon’s genitals.

A fast, sharp grin. Teeth like a shark, white and threatening. “You’re going to show me how you handle that monster you’re _so_ proud of.”

Theon frowns, looks around the room in confusion. Is this some sort of sick joke? “Is…is that it?”

“That’s it. That’s the whole game,” Bolton breathes out.

_What you say is never all that you mean, at least I know that now._

Sighing, Theon meets that chilly gaze head on. This is all just ridiculous. “You literally want to watch me jack off. I just…I uh… _come on_ …”

His tone comes out embarrassingly pleading.

“Greyjoy,” Bolton snaps, irritation finally beginning to appear through cracks of his mask of vague indifference. “I see that you’re a shy fucking cunt, but I want you to be a good girl and show me how well you handle a man’s cock. Do. Not. Make. Me. Ask. Again.”

Despite everything, Theon’s cock twitches with interest at Bolton’s words and he flushes in humiliation. The other man gives him a cruel grin, a familiar flash of teeth, “You like when I talk to you like that. Filthy _girl_.”

It isn’t even a question, it’s a statement and his cock twitches again. Theon curses himself out in his head, wonders what level of depravity is too low for him. Maybe there isn’t a level low enough and that terrifies him.

With a shaking hand, Theon takes hold of himself. He’s still mostly soft, though his flesh has begun to fill with blood slightly. He runs his hand over his skin experimentally, feeling how the string makes a difference in friction and restriction on his cock. He doesn’t look at Bolton, can’t look at him and do this at the same time.

Closing his eyes, Theon tries to disappear, to go far away. He slowly runs his hand up and down, thinks of tits and big asses in his head as he does so. No faces, just meaningless body parts to try and turn himself on. He inhales sharply as his cock finally begins to fill with blood slightly, his flesh becoming flushed. A heated pull behind his navel.

The thread allows him to expand only enough…restrictive. Tangible. Everything feels…enhanced. Tingly. Hot and wanting. Slices of anxiety still course through him as he tries to forget about the person sitting directly in front of him, the sounds of the other man moving in his seat.

Bolton, watching Theon touch himself. The searing humiliation that comes with that fact, what Theon has allowed himself to be reduced to.

His eyes flash open and he meets Bolton’s gaze almost instantly. The air dies in his lungs and his heart turns over. His hand pauses, isn’t quite sure what to do. He can’t focus on imaginary women. His mind won’t stay on any one part for long, no matter how exaggerated his imagination makes them. Theon is far too aware of who is really with him, who’s really watching him perform this ridiculous game.

Bolton breathes out through his nose, a puff of sarcastic air. He’s eyeing Theon’s partial erection. “Do you need me to help you or something? You don’t seem interested in our little game. You’re hurting my feelings, Greyjoy.”

“No! I’m just…just not used to whacking it in front of another dude, okay?” Theon says shakily, blood heating his face.

“Hn. Are you saying you give up? Does the electricity interest you more?” His voice turns painfully mocking. “I’m only trying to keep things exciting for you, after all.”

Theon shakes his head violently, closes his eyes again, handles himself a little more roughly. Now, he knows that he doesn’t really have a choice, he has to do this. If he doesn’t…well…Bolton knows his way around torture well enough. The fear eats at Theon and now he can no longer focus, his erection only somewhat awake for the action.

Awake, but not drooling. With a huff of frustration, Theon’s shoulder’s sag in defeat. He needs… _shit_. He wants hands on his throat, he wants to be held down, but all he has is this and another man. “Can’t you…say something? Talk to me or some shit.”

Bolton surprisingly lets the absence of ‘sir’ slide. He is silent for a moment and Theon fears that he’s asked for something unreasonable, but then Bolton finally responds. “And what do you want me to say?” His tone is bland, bored almost. Deceptively so.

Theon opens his eyes again and looks anywhere but at Bolton, feels anxiety running through his veins instead of arousal. “I don’t know, you’re the one with the filthy mouth. Anything you say will work…”

_ His voice reminds Theon of the first time that he choked him out, the pure sting of horrified arousal, his cock hard in his pants, the aggressive way he used his body to scare Theon out of his mind, that growling tone filled with fangs… _

Bolton gives him a bitten off laugh. He jiggles the string a bit and Theon feels every slight pull. “Alright,” the other man says lowly. “I’ll talk to you, if that’s what it takes.”

For a moment, all Theon hears is their joined breathing. He waits and waits until he finally meets Bolton’s pale eyes bravely. Once he does, Bolton gives him a dark look, eyes harsh. “Let’s talk about a girl, one lucky princess that my boy might just find out on tour. Do you want to talk about that, baby?”

The low tenor, smooth like sin and dark chocolate. A purr, but with razorblades in the undertow. Theon bites his lip and nods his head; not sure he’s prepared for where this is leading. Not sure he wants to stop.

The string goes slack again, allowing Theon to comfortably caress his flesh after a pause. He plays with the head for a few moments, allowing gentle coils of heat to pool in his belly. Widens his stance a bit, legs further spread. Bolton is watching him, eyes boring into Theon, eating him alive.

“She’s more than willing to go to bed with you. Everyone’s heard about Theon Greyjoy’s monster cock.” The way he says cock is so exaggerated and Theon bites his lips harder to keep from groaning. “Tell me what she looks like. What are you imagining in your head?”

It’s jolting, for Theon to be pulled into the conversation. He’d been lost in Bolton’s soft voice, that very tone connected to many dark memories in Theon’s head. “Ah…well. I’m thinking dark hair…”

“Don’t think, just tell me what you’re feeling and what that makes you see in your head. Tell me about this girl that you’re going to fuck for me.”

_Oh, what the fuck. What the fuck. Why am I getting harder when he says that?_

“She’s…brunette. Blue eyes, maybe. I don’t fucking care. She’s got a nice rack and legs for miles,” Theon’s hand moves faster and faster, feels excitement finally dripping from his slit.

He’s at full mast now, his impressive size hungry and willing. The thread is digging in, a slight pain, but not bad enough to stop the heat pulsing inside of him.

There’s a moment when he can almost taste Bolton’s smirk. “Legs for miles, but she’s going to ride you. You don’t want to be on top, you don’t want to do all the work. You want her to push you down, push her wet cunt up on your body, her slick staining you like the desperate whore that you are.”

“Oh fu-. Yes, s..sir,” Theon groans out, feeling a familiar ache in his balls and the unfamiliar strain of the thread around them.

He wants to cum and he never thought that he would ever want that in front of Bolton, but now his body is singing with need. That voice and the filthy words that fall from it, pulling Theon into the imagined story, narrated by Bolton himself.

Bolton knows what he wants, how he likes it. How he wants to be dominated and humiliated.

Theon’s hand is soaked with his own precum, the slide easy across his flesh.

“You should see yourself, right now,” Bolton murmurs. “Your fucking cock is drooling all over my floor. You’re so desperate for a fuck. I bet you’d spurt right now if I removed that thread.”

It’s true, something about the thread is holding Theon back just a bit, but if he really concentrates…maybe? “Ye…yeah. I probably…would,” Theon gasps out, hips stuttering slightly.

“That’s my needy, filthy girl.”

Theon whines, leaning over his cock a bit, feeling so close to the edge, heat rising, his stomach tightening with every pass over his swollen flesh. The slick sounds of him touching his flesh is loud, obscene.

“Did I mention that you aren’t able to come until I say so?” Bolton says it all blasé, like he simply forgot to tell Theon to pick up a red bull at the gas station on his way over.

Theon almost collapses, his hand immediately coming off of his dick. He looks at Bolton is surprise, blinking through his steely arousal, mouth so dry and sore from clenching his teeth. His body had been tensing in anticipation and Bolton had no doubt seen it. Theon works his jaw slightly, panting, trying to come back from the edge a bit more.

Bolton pulls on the string lightly and discomfort zings through Theon. He departs from the edge, feels insane because he wants to fall off the edge, not keep standing beside it, waiting for release. The other man grins at his dismayed expression. “So, that girl that’s riding you in your hotel room. How hard does she have to work to fit you in? Does she cry? Is your chubby just a little too thick?”

_He’s fucking merciless!_

Clearly, Theon is not meant to stop stroking himself. He uses both hands now, one working his tip and the other stroking his base gently. His balls are beginning to get sore and he’s afraid that he might be losing circulation down below. Arousal is consuming his whole body and delaying his orgasm is driving him mad, Bolton’s voice is just making things worse.

“I just…I just shove it in. I’ll tell her that it will feel better once I start…stroking her cunt…with my dick…”

Bolton laughs lightly, a slightly aroused air to it, something that Theon isn’t sure he’s heard before. “Naughty boy. She’ll make you pay for that though. She’ll press you down into that filthy hotel bed, hold you down by your neck with both of her hands…you’ll barely be able to breathe and you don’t even care because being punished is what you want and what you know you deserve.”

A desperate whine escapes Theon’s throat again, he’s so close….so close again.

Tug. Tug. Pull.

Theon groans in frustration and agony as the pulls on the thread snap him away from release once again. “Dammit,” Theon hisses. “Just let me…”

He’s never needed anything so bad.

“Beg me for it,” Bolton says softly, wickedly. “Go on, show me how you touch yourself. Get back to the edge for me.”

The arousal in Theon’s body is excruciating. He’s never been restricted from releasing like this before, never had his orgasm interrupted like this. The pain and the pleasure are hand in hand, so distinct that Theon can almost taste it on the back of his tongue. He needs, he needs to release as much as he needs air.

His fingers brush over his swollen flesh again and he groans, body shaking. “Please, I need-”

“What do you need? Tell me. Use your big boy words for me, baby.”

“Let me come. I need you to let me, I can’t-”

Bolton leans forward quickly and for a moment, Theon thinks he’s going to blow him, but instead he deftly loosens the thread saying, “Come now.”

Whether it’s his words or the string falling away from Theon’s genitals, his vision goes white as his release crashes over him, drowning him. He feels his sore, aching balls tighten up as he spurts, feels like he’s orgasming for days. Theon’s moan is loud, grotesque and greedy even to his own ears.

He’s never come so hard in his life, he thinks.

Theon is gasping desperately for air when he finally opens his eyes, his whole body moving in time with his inhales and exhales. He can’t get enough air, feels like he’s been running for miles. When his situation finally comes back to him, arousal sliding away, he remembers that yes, he just came in front of another dude and jacked off to the sound of his voice.

Red covers Theon’s face instantly. He jacked off to the sound of Bolton’s voice, the same man who grinned as a young woman screamed on his torture table. God, Theon’s sick.

Bolton is awfully silent and Theon looks at him to make sure all is okay.

Oh. Oh, _no_. It fucking isn’t. Theon almost goes white at the sight of his release on Bolton’s skin, on his neck to be precise. He probably hadn’t been able to move away quick enough when he removed the string from Theon’s cock and balls, resulting in Theon spurting all over him.

The disbelief and vague horror on Bolton’s face would have been comical had it been any other man. But it isn’t any other man, it’s Ramsay Fucking Bolton.

_Holy fu…I didn’t mean for that to happen. Shit._

To his credit though, Bolton blinks the disbelief away and his eyes darken with rage. “Clean your mess up, _now_.”

Not sure whether he’s going to die or laugh sickly, Theon shakily reaches for one of the towels on the nearby rack, but his Bolton snaps at him viciously, “No, clean it up with your tongue like the disgusting dog you are.”

Theon’s face twists in revulsion; he actually means for him to lick his own cum up? He looks at the white, dripping down the skin of Bolton’s neck and feels ill. “I…you can’t expect me to do that. It’s fucking disgusting.”

Bolton’s nostrils flare as displeasure coils in his gaze. “Oh, I expect you to do it. Put your tongue on my throat and clean up your filthy mess, or I’ll go around the club with a cup and have other men fill it up with their cum. Then I’ll make you drink it. All of it.”

The look in his eyes tells Theon he isn’t joking, not even a little bit.

With great reluctance, he crouches down beside Bolton, avoiding that aggressive gaze that is more than displeased. Theon isn’t even sure where to start, how to approach this. How to even get close to the other man. He slowly places his hand on Bolton’s leg as he leans forward, getting closer to his neck.

_I can’t believe I’m being forced to do this._

“Do it, Greyjoy.” The tone is cruel, so close to Theon’s ear.

Theon nearly retches at the prospect of licking up his mess, tries to hold back bile.

His tongue touches the other man’s skin and he slides it up, feeling the way Bolton inhales sharply at the touch. Theon tastes salty, a little gross, but not utterly terrible. It’s more humiliating than anything, but slowly he gets into his task.

Bolton’s legs fall open slightly and Theon crowds in between them, getting closer for a better angle. “Every drop,” Bolton mutters and Theon can feel his words against his tongue, vibrating in his throat.

He can even feel Bolton’s pulse as he presses his tongue hard against his jugular. Theon lets his tongue linger there, enjoys feeling the flutter of Bolton’s heartbeat there, proof that he isn’t as detached as he appears. Theon runs his tongue down the line of his throat slowly, just to get a reaction, wants to see that cool come apart.

“That’s enough,” the Dungeon Master snaps. Bolton’s hands clench, but he doesn’t hit Theon. Instead, he pushes Theon away hard and stands up, going to the towel rack to wipe up the remains of Theon’s release and his saliva.

“Are we…are we okay?” Theon asks, nervously watching the tense shape of Bolton’s shoulders. Internally, Theon is pleased that he could rattle the other man into ending Theon’s punishment early.

Bolton gives him an indiscernible look. “Pull your pants on. I’ll walk you outside.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Theon replies firmly, feeling the need to be _sure_.

Bolton’s eyebrows rise at Theon’s pushiness. He snorts, flicking his eyes to the side briefly before saying, “Yes, we’re fine. It will take more than a little jizz to bother me.”

Afterwards, as they’re walking out together, it all boils to the top in Theon’s mind. What on earth did he effing do tonight? How the hell does he find himself in these situations? He walked into a torture room, watched a stranger get tortured, truly tortured, then he jacked himself off in that very room, beside the torturer himself.

This can’t be real life.

Theon throws his head back laughing, the kind that starts deep in his belly. Full throated. He can’t stop, it isn’t a normal reaction, but he can’t. It’s probably hysteria, after seeing the man beside him force electricity up a woman’s vagina. After climaxing on that same man. Ramsay stops and stares at him, his eyes glittering. “What’s so funny?”

Wiping a tear from his eye, Theon bends over at the waist and hugs his stomach. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

Ramsay’s face becomes less amused, but Theon doesn’t care one ounce. “Did _what_?”

“I can’t believe I just… _haha_ …jizzed on you. I’m so fucking- _hahaaa_ \- I’m sorry!”

“I’m glad you find this so funny. I certainly don’t.”

With a wide, embarrassed grin, Theon looks at the other man, the kind of guy he never thought he would ever associate with, and strangely feels at home. While terrifying and controlling, Bolton can also seem painfully normal, just another guy that Theon finds himself wanting to be around more often than not. He tries to stifle his outright laughter into more tame snickering. He knows he shouldn’t but he teases further, “I guess I marked my territory, huh? Does this mean you’re mine?”

Fast as a snake, the black-haired man grabs Theon’s jaw hard, staring into his eyes firmly. “Shut your filthy mouth, you desperate slut,” Ramsay says with a strange sort of fondness that neither of them can deny.

Nor can Theon miss the look in his gaze, the one that makes his stomach flip over and his knees weak.

_He didn’t say ‘no’,_ Theon realizes with shock.

Ramsay studies him, biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying to decide something. He shifts on his feet, eyes narrowed and calculating. “Want to get something to eat quick? I know a late-night diner around the corner. I didn’t really get a chance to eat dinner. You were unexpected.”

“Sure. I mean, of course, _Sir_.”

“Stop being an insolent cunt,” Ramsay sneers, slapping Theon’s cheek playfully. “Come on. We can walk there. It’s a block down.”

The place isn’t very large, but it has a cozy feel to it. There are a few groups in the diner, mostly a few drunks from local bars who have gotten hungry amid the night. Ramsay and Theon slide into a booth and examine their menus.

Theon’s feet touch Bolton’s accidently under the table and Ramsay kicks at his tennis shoes with a sharp glance. Theon winks, “What, you don’t like playing footsie?”

“With you? No chance,” Ramsay says lightly, laying his menu on the table. He’s smirking though, the soft one that Theon likes seeing.

The waiter comes and gives them a tired look, most likely fed up with dealing with drunk customers for the night. Theon gives his order for a coffee and some eggs (sunny side up) and buttered toast. Simple and to the point.

“I’ll have the banana nutella crepes and coffee. Cream and sugar, extra sugar,” Ramsay says, eyes scanning over the menu as he speaks. “Do you have whipped cream? Yes? That too.”

Theon rolls his eyes after the waiter leaves. “How are you so in shape, but slam sugar like no one’s business? You’re like a little kid, man.”

It’s maddening, how their dynamic changes outside of the playroom, if only slightly. Theon can be more of his typical bratty self and Bolton allows more shit to slide right by.

Ramsay sits back in the booth, eyes looking tired. Looking at him now, Theon can’t believe this is the same man that tortured a young woman only an hour ago. Without mercy and with plenty of sadistic joy at her pain and at Theon’s terror. Theon has such a hard time putting the man here with that man in the dungeon.

The one that scares him witless. The one who sat there and watched him stroke his cock until Theon came…on him.

“I work late and usually have to get up early. Sugar and caffeine keep me going.” Ramsay shrugs, exhaustion starting to creep into his eyes as he watches for the waiter to return with his caffeine fix.

The whole thing doesn’t make much sense to Theon. The guy is filthy rich, but works like a dog. “You have a lot of money, don’t you? Why don’t you just…give yourself better work hours? Take a break or something.”

The soft smile. “Because there’s no rest for the wicked.” The waiter returns with their coffee cups and his pale eyes light up.

Ramsay eyes the coffee as it is set in front of them, white cups steaming visibly. Both cups contain liquid lighter than black, which Theon mentally notes with a sigh. He hates having to correct orders, always feels like a total dick and figures the wait staff will fuck with him for pointing out a mistake, no matter how kindly. While Theon is looking dejectedly at his coffee, Ramsay pushes the cup back towards the waiter, saying, “Oh, no. He drinks it black.”

There’s no apology in Ramsay’s statement. None of that, ‘excuse me, this order has a mistake’. Just a calm statement that expects results.

The waiter blinks at Ramsay before glancing at Theon’s face. “I’m so sorry! I guess I assumed cream. It’s rather late, my brain is so fried. I’ll get you a plain cup of joe. Sorry about that.”

Theon smiles wanly. “No problem. Happens all the time.”

Quietly, he enjoys the way that Ramsay took control of the situation. At risk of sounding like a girl, Theon does like having someone else take care of him for a change. No one has ever taken care of him, not really. Kyra has patched him up, been there emotionally, but she doesn’t take charge. She doesn’t take the wheel.

When the food comes, they eat in near silence, gulping coffee down. The food is good; Theon is surprised that he’s never come here before. He’d definitely come back. Probably should tell Robb about it for brunch or something.

He glances up to look at the man across from him.

It always astounds Theon, seeing Ramsay outside of the club, being with him in a normal setting. He’s so typical, like any guy off the street. The thing that isn’t so typical is that more and more Theon finds himself examining the shape of his hands as Ramsay touches things, holds things. The way Ramsay holds his coffee cup, the way he subtly people watches a room. His pale eyes, softly scanning a room before pinning Theon with their undivided attention.

Theon loves being the center of his attention, feels like no one else exists for Bolton when he’s staring Theon down.

His eyes are stunning, Theon finds, stunning like a murder scene, visceral. Whenever he connects with that gaze, be it outside or inside of the club, he feels like Ramsay actually sees him, sees beyond the bullshit and the fake armor that Theon wears. It terrifies him; Theon doesn’t want the broken, scarred bits of himself to be seen.

It’s why he’s always tried _so hard_ to be anything but vulnerable.

“So…should we talk about tonight?” Theon feels like he’s crossed a forbidden line with Bolton, isn’t sure where that leaves them.

Ramsay clears his plate and sips his gross sugar milk, looking at Theon from under lowered lashes. “Do we need to? Talk about it? Is something bothering you still?”

That’s the problem; what happened should be bothering Theon more, but it isn’t. He holds Ramsay’s gaze, counts the different shades of grey in his eyes. Shakes his head faintly. “No. I think I’m fine.”

Black hair falls across Ramsay’s forehead as he tilts his head, examines Theon lazily. “Are you sure? Not going to run away on me again, are you?”

Theon frowns and rolls his eyes. “I’m not some fucking girl. And I don’t run away.”

“Uh huh.”

The sleepy waiter returns, holding the check. “Are you guys splitting the bill or…?”

Bolton holds out his hand expectantly and after a moment, the waiter hands him the check. Shifting his weight, Bolton digs his wallet out and gives the waiter his credit card. Theon bites his lip. “I can help with that you know.”

“Oh, shut your mouth, Greyjoy, can’t you just enjoy it,” Ramsay snarks, idly checking the time on his watch. He sighs at the time he sees there.

He signs the receipt when it comes back and they exit the diner, back out into the lukewarm night.

“I’ve got to go back,” Ramsay says lightly. There’s a hint of exhaustion at the edge of his tone. “Work to do.”

There’s that feeling again, the one that sounds like alarm bells in Theon’s head. The one that sounds like everyone telling him, ‘hey, that friend of yours, he’s bad news’. He’s not even sure what compels him to speak the next words, but he asks, “Want me to come back with you? Maybe I can help.”

The corner of Ramsay’s lip quirks upwards, slightly. “Aren’t you sweet?” Mocking. “But no. Go home, Greyjoy. I’ll see you another time.”

When Theon gets home, he can’t stop wondering if Ramsay had gotten aroused, watching Theon stroke himself. He wonders if Ramsay liked what he saw. Theon’s mind spins around it all night until he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

On Robb’s birthday, the crew goes out to dinner at some fancy restaurant of Robb’s choice. They do this every year and every year they go to a different place. Robb isn’t one for change, but he does change his restaurant of choice quite often. He has expensive taste, when it comes to food.

Not that Theon minds; he loves Robb’s birthday. It’s a riot every year. They all dress up and pretend to be well-behaved guys, sitting at fancy upscale bars until the degrade into party animals by the crack of dawn.

Tonight, it’s some modern steak restaurant, a fusion of one anyway. All sorts of locally grown produce and meats adorn the ever-changing menu. The appetizers are exquisite, lovely lobster bisque, fantastic bison meatballs, grilled cauliflower tossed in some wild spicy sauce. Ugh. Theon is dying. He loves it all.

“Do we know where we are going after this? There’s a nice rooftop bar that just opened like, two blocks down,” Gendry is saying, polishing off his fancy craft beer. His dark blue eyes are enhanced by his blue button-down shirt, spread tight across his broad form.

Theon vaguely wonders how Gendry gets the thing on with his ridiculous biceps.

Robb is drinking his gin and tonic, a sharp drink for a sharp man. “I mean that works for me. I’m down for anything after this.”

“You’ll have to carry me,” Theon says, guzzling his whiskey. “I intend to eat everything on this menu. Everything.”

“It all does look good. We need to come here more often,” Robb says, still trying to figure out what his main entrée will be no doubt.

“How about that martini lounge on Evers Street?” Jon says, taking a drink from his vodka mixer. Kettle One, of course.

Theon gestures with his drink, some of it slopping over the side. “None of us will walk out of that bar alive. I swear, they drug those martinis.”

“Then you should like them, right?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Theon snaps at Jon. Robb snickers, taking a bite from a heavily spice lamb kabob on the table.

“Where do you want to go then, if you’re so wise and picky?” Robb says, laughing.

Theon ponders the question and eyeballs all of the men at the table. “The tiki bar. Clearly. Let’s get some flaming skulls. Something manly.”

Jon nods, dark eyes sharp. “Oh yeah. Nothing screams manly like a bunch of dudes sipping from the same drink with curly magenta straws.”

Robb makes a settle down gesture with his hands. “Alright, let’s be friends. We can go to all the bars tonight. Not sure what has been going on between you two lately, but patch it up.”

Theon stares across the table at Jon, who is giving him that signature mopey look of his. The look reminds him of their last conversation, the one where they both did a little sharing of secrets. Theon almost snickers with laughter, recalling the memory in his head.

He remembers what started it all, finding out that Jon knew Dany and _how exactly_.

_“You fucked her, didn’t you? You dog. I guess I can see it, you’re so sad and soft-natured and she’s all hard lines and teeth,” Theon sneers._

_Jon has gone pale, paler than normal. “It isn’t like that…”_

_His face says it all. Theon cackles. “You did her. Just admit it.”_

_Frowning, lips a tight line, Jon snaps, “It was a mistake. It was when Ygritte and I were fighting, we broke up for a bit…then I met her.”_

_That’s when Theon sees the leverage. He can remedy this. “I won’t tell if you keep your mouth shut about the whole club thing. I won’t tell Ygritte and I won’t tell Robb.”_

_A furious look crosses Jon’s face, eyes dark pits of night. “This isn’t even comparable, Theon. What you’re doing is going to get you hurt or killed. I don’t really give a damn what you do at that club; I care who you’re doing it with. Robb would agree with me and you know it.”_

_“It’s my business, not yours!” Theon snaps. “I swear, you fucking speak a word of this, I will blab all about you and Dany.”_

_“You can’t. You can’t talk about that. There’s more than just Ygritte at stake if you talk about Dany and I.”_

_Scoffing, Theon steps back and starts scrolling through Jon’s phone. “Oh, why’s that…?”_

_He stiffens when he comes across the name he’s looking for in the text section. He blinks as he reads some of the conversations, feels his world tilt. Then he looks up at Jon accusingly. “You’re related to her. How the hell…how did that even come up in conversation? How did you even figure that out?”_

_Jon runs a hand over his face, looking distraught. And he should, this shit is fucked up. “That’s not important. What’s important is that I ended it with her immediately.”_

_“You fucked…your aunt? Dude. That’s fucking depraved. Talk about bad press for the band.”_

_They can distantly hear Robb and Gendry making their way up the street to their alley. The two are drunk, but not obnoxiously so. They have a few minutes before they interrupt Jon and Theon, so Theon figures they need to wrap this conversation up soon._

_Jon makes a grab for his phone, trying to pull it out of Theon’s grasp. “No more depraved than you wanting to get in bed with a criminal.”_

_That slimy feeling slides down into Theon’s belly at those words. “You don’t know anything about it. I thought you weren’t one to give life to rumors.”_

_With a grunt, Jon yanks the phone from Theon’s hands and faces off against him, typical mix of sad and frown on his face. “I never took you for the type to bury your head in the sand, Theon.”_

_“Jon, Theon! What are you doing in there? Secret alley blowjobs?” Gendry, laughter in his voice._

They do patch it up for Robb’s birthday, a temporary peace between them. When their main dishes arrive, the band dives into their food with pleasure, humming as they eat.

“This place is dangerous,” Gendry moans as he takes a bite of his monstrous ribeye.

When they finish eating, they spend the next hour drinking and laughing. The ambience of the restaurant is dark and mysterious, almost like a trendy bar itself. They are in no rush to leave. The bill is most likely going to be heinous, but they keep drinking anyway, getting sloppier as time goes by.

He can’t quite place the time, but near ten something catches Theon’s eye across the room. A laugh. A voice. Through his drunken haze, he tries to find the source of that familiar sound and is shocked to see Ramsay Bolton at a circular table with a group of men in power suits. Their table is located in what must be considered a ‘well sought’ area, the walls around them showcasing high value wines and champagnes.

_What the hell is he doing here?_ Theon finds himself wondering. _Who is he with?_

He hasn’t seen Bolton all week. He’s been ‘busy’ apparently. Whatever that fucking means.

He’s not feeling neglected, not one bit. He hasn’t seen him since…the last time. They’ve talked, but Theon hasn’t been back to the club. Something tastes sour on the back on Theon’s tongue as he stares at Bolton’s profile. That asshole probably has no clue he’s here, probably doesn’t even care what Theon’s been up to the past few days.

_He’s called you, to see how you are…so quick to forget that, huh?_ He’s at war with himself, the logical, non-drunk part of him telling him that this is no big deal and the emotional part of him is throwing a mental bitch fit.

Theon looks away, decides to pretend Bolton doesn’t exist, doesn’t look super nice in a three piece fucking suit that looks made for him. It’s how he finds himself craving a bump, dragging poor birthday boy with him to the men’s room.

“Come on, Robb. Just this once. It’s your birthday!” Theon whines, pulling him into the bathroom. It’s a ritzy fucking bathroom too. Marble floors and shit.

Robb gives him a stern look, though there is a suspicious amount of humor in his blue eyes. “No, Theon. I’ve got a hard no against blow.”

Slinging an arm around him, Theon snickers into Robb ear fondly. “Does that rule out ex too?”

“Rule me out on everything. Everything!” Robb says hurriedly, as if someone in the men’s room is going to think less of him based on Theon’s words.

Goody two-shoes Robb Stark. It’s no surprise. Sometimes, Theon just wants to grab him and bring him low, bring him down into the mud and filth that Theon is so familiar with. Sometimes he wants to mar the perfectness that equals Robb Stark…and it’s a hateful desire.

He shouldn’t feel that way about someone who has always wanted the best for him, but Theon is a twisted, ungrateful piece of garbage.

With a heave of effort, Theon yanks Robb into one of the stalls, smirking at the horrified glance they are given by an older man washing his hands. “How did you turn out to be such a bore,” Theon scoffs into Robb’s ear as he slams the stall door shut behind them.

With a growl, Robb pushes Theon against one of the stall walls. “How did you turn into such an insulting bitch?”

They struggle against each other playfully. “Were you absent our entire childhood? I’ve always been an insulting bitch. Come on, Robb. Just do it.”

“No! Stop. Don’t do it, Theon! Oh. You’re doing it. You’ve done it. What the hell…” Robb sounds drunk, happy. He’s trying to be scolding, but he’s failing miserably, fondness bleeding through his voice blatantly. Theon loves making Robb happy, it makes him forget how miserable he always feels inside.

Theon gasps as he stands up from snorting a line on the box that holds the toilet paper. “Thaaaat hits the spot.”

Robb reaches forward and wipes Theon’s nose. “Had some…you know. There.”

“No doubt, bro. Your turn.”

“I already told you…”

Theon grabs him by the back of the neck and laughs as Robb complains. He playfully bobs Robb’s head towards the remaining line. “Get down there and snort it! It’s your birthday, for crying out loud.”

It’s even more crazy when Robb catches Theon by surprise. “Holy crap,” Theon says loudly. “You did it. I popped your coke cherry. YES.”

Robb rubs his own nose and makes a gagging noise. “Ugh. It’s running down the back of my throat. I can taste it. Ew. Bad ideas, Theon. That’s all you’re made of.”

Theon grins widely, an open drunk grin that holds nothing back. “But you love me for it.”

Robb claps him on the shoulder. “I love you for it, asshole.”

Cackling loudly, they both stumble out of the stall together, giving no fucks how that probably looks to everyone else in the bathroom. When Theon detangles himself from Robb, he catches piercing eyes in the mirror across from them, by the granite sinks. He knows those eyes anywhere.

Robb stiffens immediately. “Bolton.” Robb says the word like they are all out having tea and crumpets together, cordial as hell.

Ramsay lifts an eyebrow delicately in the mirror as he finishes washing his hands, eyes suspiciously disinterested in Robb. “Stark,” he replies shortly before turning his soul sucking gaze upon Theon. “Greyjoy.”

Theon swallows audibly under his curt inspection, feels it like a touch on his flesh, remembers the way his voice sounds when he talks like whore. He can’t speak, so he just nods hello instead. Feels the way Robb’s hand tightens on him, sees the way Bolton’s eyes watch that slight movement.

With a curt nod, Robb pulls Theon out of the bathroom quickly, escaping. “I didn’t realize you knew him,” Robb says idly, whispering in Theon’s ear.

There is danger here, yellow signs blinking in Theon’s head.  The last thing he wants is for Robb to know about what he does in the dark when he isn’t with the band. “I don’t.”

Brow furrowing, Robb doesn’t let it go so easily. “It seems like he knows you.”

Backpedaling quickly, Theon straightens up, sighs as they walk back to their table. His mind is spinning as he tries to think of what to say, tries to construct a story or an answer that will make sense. “I mean, I don’t really know him. Not really. Kyra works at the club he runs. I’ve run into him before.”

There’s that serious look again, the one that reminds Theon of Ned Stark. Or worse, Catelyn. Perhaps that’s what drives him mad when Robb acts holier than thou…it reminds Theon of Catelyn Stark and he can’t claim to have ever gotten along with her. That red hair and those gas-flame blue eyes…Robb is sometimes painfully similar to his mother.

“Be careful, Theon. The Bolton family may be considered a wealthy, well-respected house, but they are involved in a lot of shady things under the covers. Don’t stay on his radar. In fact, you should tell Kyra that she should really look for a new place to work.”

“I’ve never seen anything in the news about them. Criminal or otherwise,” Theon says flatly. “I’m pretty sure my family has been in the news more than the Bolton’s and you don’t see people running their mouths about us.”

_ …Just this afternoon, in Ironman’s Bay, two of the Greyjoy heirs were murdered on their yacht. Intent still unknown, though foul play assumed on the business end of the large shipping company. Stay tuned on Westeros News Channel Ten… _

Theon blinks the memory away.

Robb just shakes his head and pauses just beside their table. “Just because you aren’t hearing about it doesn’t mean bad things aren’t happening. Roose Bolton is just very good at hiding his tracks. As is his son.”

They join the table again, everyone settling up their bills. Jon looks at Robb and Theon suspiciously, then rolls his eyes. “Finally got your way, huh, Theon? You’ve corrupted Robb.”

Theon laughs broadly. “It was only a matter of time and you know it!”

Robb shakes his head, laughing under his breath. He grabs Theon around the back of his neck and Theon does the same for him. They bump foreheads, a little too hard, but it leaves Theon smiling widely. Jon just scoffs.

As they all stand up to leave, Theon’s eyes drift back to where Bolton would be with his group. He watches as Ramsay Bolton finishes his wine, grinning at one of his counterparts. The group stands and is ushered through some back door, a door that doesn’t lead to the kitchen. Theon stares and wonders.

Nah. Bolton is just a rich prick out with his rich friends. There isn’t much more to it.

Or that’s what Theon tells himself when he catches Robb giving him a dark look again.

“Fucking hell. What is everyone waiting for? Let’s hit that flaming tiki bar of Theon’s,” Gendry says bombing his beer with impressive skill.

 

* * *

 

Saturday morning has Theon dying of an impressive hangover. He can’t even count everything he drank or every bar and club they went to. He wakes up on Robb’s couch, feet on Jon who is sleeping on the other end. Jon groans miserably and drags himself to the bathroom, extracting himself from Theon without a word.

Theon isn’t sure how he ended up on the couch with Jon in the first place. Maybe they had a drunken heart to heart that he doesn’t remember. It’s plausible.

He has to talk himself into it, but Theon pulls himself from the couch and goes to Robb’s room, to check in on him. “You okay dude?”

His head is splitting, but he imagines birthday boy is in worse shape. Robb is a dark shape in the middle of his bed and Robb just growls something unintelligible. “Need anything? Before I go?”

Robb rolls over, groaning. “Just go. I’m dead for the day. The week, probably.”

For good measure, Theon puts a water bottle and some pills on Robb’s bed stand before he leaves.

When Theon gets home, he treats himself to bottled water and painkillers, some toast as well. He checks his phone and groans when he sees that Ramsay has texted him.

_Too busy to come by last night, huh? Traded up for a respectable time with good guy Robb Stark?_

Theon scowls. _What the hell are you talking about? It isn’t like you were free anyway._

The response comes quickly. _Well, maybe I would have made time for you if you had asked._

_Bullshit,_ Theon texts back. _Stop being a jealous girl._

That shuts Bolton up briefly. Then, _You know how I get. Come by tonight._

Theon sighs and refills his water bottle.

* * *

 

He goes to the _Dreadfort Nightclub_ that night, later than usual. Past eleven.

It’s been nagging at him, driving Theon nuts through his hangover all day. He can’t get it out of his head, seeing Bolton out the prior night. Whenever Bolton had told him that he would be busy, Theon had always had the impression that it would be work. Instead in this case, Bolton had been dressed better than Theon ever had been dressed in his entire life, getting bottle service with a group of men that Theon did not recognize.

It doesn’t feel right. Theon doesn’t feel okay. He feels lied to, like he’s some side piece in Bolton’s life that only comes when Bolton is willing to give him time. Theon’s chest is tight and his heart feels weird, like it has been torn out of his chest and stepped on.

Which is absolutely stupid; it isn’t like there are emotions involved here, Theon isn’t fucking gay and Bolton most certainly isn’t his boyfriend. He just…feels like his ‘friend’ has a secret life outside of Theon and Theon feels like he’s stuck behind a wall that he simply cannot breach.

Bolton gives him a little, just a taste of who he is, but he never quite lets Theon in.

He’s always keeping him at an arm’s length. Then he acts like Theon has freaking betrayed him by hanging out with Robb and his own bandmates, who are all like family.

Theon storms into the playroom down below, almost relieved to see Bolton waiting for him, alone. Of course he’s alone, he’s been expecting Theon. Bolton’s eyes are flat as he looks up from sharpening his blades. “Ah. You’re here. Late.”

Sneering, Theon slams the door shut behind him. “Yeah. I’m late. I’m allowed to be late. I’m my own person.”

Bolton pausing in his sharpening of his blades, gives Theon a dark glance. “Is that how it’s going to be tonight, then? You are your own person. I enjoy that. But you seem to be lost on what is actually ‘allowed’. Being late is not one of those things.”

“Oh, stuff it!” Theon snaps. “What has your deal been this past week, huh? You’ve been fucking absent.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Is that fucking so?” Theon is sneering, sea-green eyes blazing. “Didn’t look busy last night when you were out.”

He’s angry. Theon doesn’t like being bitched at when he knows the other person is guilty of the same crime.

Putting the knives away, Bolton stays leaning against the far wall, hair over his eyes. Ominous. Distant. Shadows play on his features. “You were out last night as well, if I recall correctly. With _Robb Stark_.”

His spits the name like a curse.

Theon ignores his tone, ignores the comment. “And what were you doing there last night? Who were those guys you were with?” Those shady fucking guys in their nice suits.

“What I do when I’m not with you is nothing for you to worry your little head about,” Bolton says, and though the words are nearly sweet, his tone of voice screams fuck off.

Furious for reasons Theon just can’t pick up on, Theon twists his lips, sneers. “Okay. Fine. You keep your life to yourself. I keep mine. If I want to go out with Robb Stark all night, I fucking will.”

Bolton shifts, tilts his face so that his eyes are now visible. The look there is terrifying. “What else do you do with Robb Stark?”

Theon scoffs. “Um. I don’t know, rock out? Drink? Be normal guys?”

Stepping away from the wall, Bolton is suddenly beside Theon in a few strides. He presses him up against the wall, teeth bared. “Are you fucking him? I heard you in the bathroom stall. I wouldn’t put it past you, being the filthy cunt you are. He _loves_ you, huh? How quaint.”

For a moment, Theon is floored, utterly floored. “W..what?! No. No! Why were you listening anyway? We were just screwing around! Are you…are you seriously jealous?”

Bolton slams him hard against the wall, so hard that Theon’s teeth rattle. “You know how I feel about you being touched by other people. Why is that so hard for you to understand? Do I need to drill it into your skull? Tattoo it on you? Carve it into you with a knife? _What will it take, Greyjoy_?”

Theon headbutts him, growling. “I’ve already told you; I don’t belong to you! I’m not your property!”

Stepping backwards, spitting blood into his hand, Bolton glares furiously, a storm about to unleash. “You’re going to regret doing that.”

“Make me,” Theon snaps, teeth out, body tense.

In retrospect, that is the wrong thing to say. They fight briefly, though it isn’t much of a fight; Bolton is much stronger, compact muscle where Theon is more lean muscle. Bolton is blatantly mean where Theon is just irritated; it makes all the difference in the world.

Eventually, Theon’s hands and wrists are bound tight, spread eagle on the table where Bolton has trapped him, panting roughly beside him with a vicious glare. Theon’s bare, only his boxers remaining. “You’re going to wish you were never born, when I’m done with you,” Bolton says lowly, a nightmare in flesh form.

“You’re overreacting,” Theon says with exasperation. This has gone way too far.

“I may be overreacting, but it’s your fault,” Bolton hisses, going to stand by one of his cabinets, pulling open various drawers. He’s pulled this weird contraption over Theon, one with a few different sets of chains and straps connected to it. It hangs in the air and Theon wonders how the strange thing is used.

Bolton begins to lay out these strange hooks. Thick hooks, with large heads, large enough for straps to fit through. _What the heck does he think he’s going to do with those,_ Theon thinks with vague concern. _He’s not going to…that doesn’t have anything to do with the thing above me, does it?_

Fear is bile on the back of Theon’s tongue, bitter and disgusting. This is not what he had expected for tonight. He’d figured that Ramsay would be ticked off about the night before if at all…but this…this is jealousy times one thousand.

When no less than fourteen of these demonic looking hooks are laid out, Bolton brings them over to Theon. “We are going to do something quite different tonight. Some…advanced suspension techniques,” Bolton is saying, picking up one of the hooks to examine it idly. “Not something for beginners.”

“What are the hooks for?” Theon asks, trying to hide the shakiness of his voice.

An ugly look shapes Bolton’s face at Theon inquiry. “The hooks are for hanging you, of course.”

“No.” Theon says it flatly, sternly. “You are not hanging me like a fucking fish. I don’t care how mad you are at me about last night. It isn’t happening.”

Iciness builds in Bolton’s pale eyes, pupils constricted. “You operate under the impression that you have a choice. You don’t.”

With those words, he comes to Theon’s side and brings six of the hooks with him, looking at the expanse of Theon’s exposed back. Theon struggles wildly, snarling at Bolton to stay away from him. The other man only places a hand on his back, pressing him down. “Best not to move. Might tear your flesh more if you do.”

_Ripping, tearing…flesh from my body._ In Theon’s mind, all he sees is blood and gore, a sea of it flowing over him. He cannot do this. Will not do this. Bolton must recognize some sort of boundaries.

“Ironborn, ironborn, I said ironborn motherfucker!” Theon shouts, hysteria riding his voice. Hopes that his safeword will be listened to.

The Dungeon Master pauses and looks at him. There, in those eyes, Theon can swear that he sees the fires of hell flare briefly. A cruel smile lights Bolton’s face as he slides the hook under Theon’s flesh anyway.

Theon wails, his throat cracking around the force of his cry. He can feel it spreading his skin apart, dipping in like butter. It goes deep, not just slightly under the skin, but deep in the flesh. Theon screams again when Bolton tests the grip of the hook, pulls at his flesh with it. Pleased, the Dungeon Master hums low in his throat, eyes hungrily staring a Theon’s body.

“I’ve been waiting to do this to someone for some time. No one quite has…the fortitude required,” The Dungeon Master says excitedly.

“You said I could use a safeword, asshole!” Theon snarls, voice hysteric. He can feel the heat of his blood trickling from the puncture wound in his back.

Those fierce eyes pin Theon, like a bug with a needle in it. Trapped. Worthless. “I don’t recall telling you anything of the sort; if I did, I lied.”

With that, he continues to add the hooks, quickly and precisely. Spread out evenly across Theon’s back, the backs of his arms and legs. Every time a hook sinks into Theon’s skin he wails in agony, hates the sensation of being stabbed, of bleeding from multiple wounds.

_He never meant to listen to the safeword in the first place,_ Theon thinks in horror, remembers the amused cruelty in Ramsay’s face as told him he wanted a safeword for them to use. _I can’t make him stop. Nothing I do will make him stop. He truly can do anything to me._

At some point, through the searing pain that crosses Theon’s entire body, Bolton moves the hanging contraption in the air and starts attaching the straps and chains to Theon’s hooks. “These should hold nicely if you don’t struggle,” Bolton says nastily. “If you struggle, your skin might tear open completely. So…I wouldn’t struggle if I were you.”

“Please, don’t do this,” Theon begs, hates feeling like his whole body is about to rip open and spill on the floor.

“You already know how I feel about that word,” Bolton says. “It’s too late, Greyjoy. You need to learn your lesson.”

Bolton pulls a crank and the straps and chains begin to pull Theon upward. Theon screams, feeling his skin pull thickly around the hooks, evenly spaced so that his weight is spread evenly. Soon, he is suspended in the air, hanging by hooks implanted in his body.

He cries, can’t believe he’s crying but he doesn’t know what else he can do, the pain so unreal.

The pain is excruciating, beyond what his mind can comprehend. He begs and begs, but Bolton just sits in his damn chair and watches, observes Theon as he hangs like a side of live beef. He screams until his voice breaks.

Theon wouldn’t be surprised if his bones ripped out of his skin, if his spine tore straight out. Perhaps he will just become an empty shell of blood and organs, absent his bones. The agony is consuming, like the ocean, waves of pain crashing over him constantly.

Time passes slowly.

All of his pain receptors are firing at will, overloading his brain until suddenly, he’s faced with nothingness. It’s almost like being shot into space, another universe. Everything blanks for Theon, goes dark.

Then, everything changes as his natural hormones and chemicals go into overdrive. Something unreal happens, something he never expected. An escape from the pain.

He’s weightless, the pull on his flesh surreal. He sags into it and his head drops with an agonizing sigh that causes the Dungeon Master to make a noise deep in his chest. He doesn’t matter anymore though, Theon, the body that belongs to Theon, he’s floating away from it.

Despite it all, he’s never felt so free.

The other man disappears for him, Theon doesn’t really see Bolton as he fades into the agony, becomes one with it. Bolton’s just part of the scenery, pale eyes with black hellish pits for pupils, wide and hungry as they stare up at Theon as he hangs. Those eyes trace the lines of his flesh, the streaks of red that paint him.

Theon isn’t sure how long he hangs there, floating in his own personal hyperspace. He feels faint, blood filling his head as he lets it hang low, his body completely relaxed. If he’s alive or dead, he no longer cares. His only regret is that he may have died flying instead of drowning.

His only goal is the sea, to drown with his brothers, the ones who paid the iron price. He wants to die.

He wants to die.

Eventually, Theon is let down from his beautiful height, brought back to earth if only for a few moments.

Bolton slowly reels the crank, letting the chains lower Theon back to the table on his belly. The Dungeon Master stands beside him, undoing the hooks from Theon’s flesh with deft hands. He’s quick, precise, brushing a swab of alcohol over the slight puncture wounds.

It’s strange, how Theon almost feels nothing. The pain is beyond him, only an echo of what once was.

Theon feels like he is floating still despite being on the table, feels like he is dropping and rising from a great height. Cold and numbness rush over him in waves, uncontrollable waves. He’s reminded of the sea, feels like floating and drowning, torn between the sensations.

He wants to drown, it’s all he’s ever wanted.

Suddenly, Bolton doesn’t seem quite so bad. He’s given Theon this. He’s set him free from his body, if only for a while. Somewhere inside of Theon, a part of him screams that Bolton’s did this to him, that he hurt him terribly, but floating Theon dismisses the idea, can’t think straight.

“Wh…” his tongue feels thick. “Why do…why I feel funny?”

“Endorphins. Chemicals in your body,” Bolton says quietly, staring at him like he’s never seen him before. “You were in a subspace.”

“Oh.” Theon doesn’t understand. Must be different than that subdrop thing he had before. He feels drunk, woozy. “Can I go to bed now?”

It seems like a logical question at the moment. Theon feels like falling, like going into hibernation and never coming back. “Soon,” Ramsay mutters, “But not yet. I’ve got to check the entry wounds over thoroughly. These can easily get infected. I don’t…I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“You’ll…take care of me?”

“I’ll take care of you.”

Ramsay fingers the punctures, causing Theon to wince, whine in dulled agony. The alcohol swab comes back again, a dull fire along Theon’s back and legs. Then strong hands are lifting him.

“Come on. Lean on me.” Bolton is pulling him up, trying to get him onto his own two feet. Theon’s muscles aren’t quite cooperating. He feels like he’s been at sea for weeks. He misses being at sea, he always used to be at sea with his brothers.

“Wh-where are we going? To bed?” Theon so hopes they are going to bed. He’s fading so quickly.

“Not quite,” his master mutters softly.

_Is it master now?_ Theon wonders hazily. _Is that how I truly see him? I don’t see him like that. I’m just…high…or something._

It’s so cold. Why is everything so cold and numb? “Can I have my clothes back now? Why…what are you doing?”

Bolton rests Theon’s shoulder against the wall gently for a moment, stepping away from him. Theon misses the warmth of his body, he’s so chilled. He’s shaking in his underwear and his skin feels funny, like he doesn’t belong in it. He wants to tear it off and leave this plane of existence, become something else. He watches with confused intrigue as his master strips his own shirt off, folding it on the nearby table.

Then, he unzips his dark jeans and lets them sink to the ground, slipping out of his shoes as well. Theon tilts his sleepy head in wonder, examining the body in front of him, wondering. His eyes ravenously consume the lines of Bolton’s hips, his trim waist and firm curves of his pectorals. He wants to run his tongue over his skin, he wants his master to do the same to him, but he’s _so fucking exhausted_!

Bolton comes back to Theon’s side at pulls him to his frame, holding him up again. They walk a few more steps and into another section of the playroom that Theon has never seen before. An empty little square room, walls lined with beautiful black stone. Theon is too out of it to truly admire the small space, a dimmed light above them.

His body is pulled flush against his master’s as Ramsay leans around him to fiddle with something on the wall. The sensation of skin against skin is overwhelming and Theon whines desperately, wants to crawl into the strong body holding him up. “Hold on to me for a minute,” Ramsay says firmly, voice odd.

Theon wraps his arms around the other, leans on him for support, otherwise he would be on the ground. Without warning, a warm, liquid feeling pours over them and Theon jerks in shock while Ramsay sighs.

It’s a shower. They’re in a shower together.

The warm water streams over their flesh and Theon basks in the slide of heated skin against his own. He’s never touched another man like this, nearly naked in this shower. He can feel Ramsay’s heart pounding against his cheek, his head resting on Ramsay’s chest as the warm water soaks them.

It’s euphoric; there is nothing else in the entire world except them and the sound of water. Theon loves water, was born for water. Was made to die in water. He wonders if Ramsay knows this, the way Theon knows it in his soul.

Distantly, he wonders if Ramsay would drown him, if he asked nicely.

Firm fingers delve into Theon’s scalp, through his wet hair. It’s wonderful, heavenly. That hand keeps him pressed against Ramsay’s chest, against his skin. Theon’s tongue darts out and tastes the water on Ramsay’s pectoral, thirsty. Feels the way Ramsay shivers, holds him tighter.

The other man makes sure that his wounds get cleaned, the wounds that Theon cannot feel, can barely remember now. All Theon can focus on is the heat of Ramsay’s body against his, the scent of his skin, the firmness of his muscles hidden under his flesh. Theon wants to bite him, so he does, teeth gently nibbling.

With a soft gasp, Ramsay pulls him closer, pushes into Theon’s seeking teeth before gently pulling him away. “Behave,” he says so quietly that Theon isn’t even sure he said it at all.

He wants to touch Ramsay down there, to feel him, see if he’s interested in something other than Theon’s pain and misery. Does he want Theon’s body the way Theon wants to know his? Blurrily, water streaming down his face, Theon reaches down, tries to cup the other man, but Ramsay grabs his wrist before he makes contact.

“What did I just say?” The words are firmer and Theon sags against him in defeat.

Distantly, from afar, he feels pressure on his forehead and Theon opens his eyes again. Ramsay is resting his forehead against his, ashen eyes closed as water streams over the lines of his face. Theon wants…well he isn’t sure. He wants…he wants something he shouldn’t want. He doesn’t want to think about it.

When they leave the shower, Theon is almost disappointed. His boxers are soaked, as are Ramsay’s, but Ramsay towels the rest of their bodies off briskly. Theon lets him do this, lets him take care of Theon like Theon is a child.

He is like a child at this moment. He can’t formulate a proper thought right now, so lost inside of himself. He needs to be taken care of.

“I’m taking your boxers off. You’ll soak your jeans if I don’t,” Ramsay says distantly, his fingers sliding away Theon’s modesty.

He really doesn’t have any time to worry about Ramsay seeing him completely bare, frankly doesn’t care. Somewhere, in his hazy mind, he knows that his body belongs to his master and seeing it completely naked does not bother Theon. He allows Ramsay to help him into his dry clothes, lets him guide him out of the dungeon.

Theon buries his face in Ramsay’s neck tiredly, inhales the scent of his skin. He smells clean and Theon wonders if they smell the same, their scents mingled after showering together, their skin pressed against one another. Lines blurring between who belongs to who.

It’s hard to keep track of logical thought. Something tells Theon he should be going somewhere, getting in a cab, finding a car, calling Robb to come take him away, but instead night air caresses his face. Time has shifted without Theon’s consent or knowledge; they are now outside in the dark.

It’s a distant memory, the terror and horror that had coursed through Theon’s veins in waves. The pure fright that had overtaken him when the other man completely ignored his safeword, ignored Theon’s limits. These things…are not at the front of Theon’s mind and somewhere inside he knows that they should be.  

“Come on,” Ramsay mutters, grunting as he hoists Theon more firmly against his body. “Stay with me a little longer.”

“Where would I go?” Theon asks with confusion, because why would he leave Ramsay? His mind…it’s so lost, under dark molasses, sinking.

Darkness flutters over his vision again and Theon stumbles, his legs feeling so weak. He wants to fade, why won’t Ramsay let him fade away? He’s always wanted to drown.

There comes a soft beeping noise that jolts Theon out of his reverie. A car. He frowns; he didn’t bring a car tonight, at least he’s sure that he didn’t. He’s not always able to drive himself home, after all. Sometimes too drunk, sometimes too hurt.

“Get in,” Ramsay says, moving Theon’s numb body with effort. “Watch your head. Sit still. _Stop_ fussing, I’m putting your seatbelt on. Why do you have to be so difficult?”

Theon goes docile once more, going limp in what feels like a deep seat, low to the ground. Ah. Ramsay’s car. The nice one. Theon grins dreamily. He’s been in this car before; he just doesn’t remember. It’s sleek, its beautiful, he wishes he could fully appreciate it. The door shuts beside him and Ramsay slides into the driver’s seat.

He pins Theon with a look that Theon can’t be expected to decipher. He stares and stares, thinking mysterious things that Theon wishes he could pull out of his mind, so that he would know what Ramsay is thinking as he looks at him. Ramsay sighs and starts the car, the engine coming to life with a gentle purr.

“I’m bleeding all over your fancy…car.”

“Yes,” Ramsay replies in a matter of fact tone. “Just don’t die in it. My insurance premium will go up if you do.”

This all makes perfect sense to Theon as he floats just above his own skin, in a different plane of being. “Okay.” Then a thought occurs to him. “Where are we going? Am I going to die there?”

A warm, shaking hand gently passes through Theon’s hair and he leans into the touch desperately. His master says, “No, Theon. We’re going home.”

_That’s good. We’re going home. Maybe we can shower again. That was nice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Ooooh boy. Things are getting real now. Stay tuned XD
> 
> I love all of your fantastic comments! Thank you all for reading this monster.


	12. The Hunter & The Hound Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one right doesn't fix a wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those all belong to George R. R. Martin
> 
>  **AN:** Okay. This chapter turned into a 15,000 word monster that I did have to split in half. I chose to do this due to the fact that two things occur in this chapter that need some physical separation. **This is Part I of II**. Something that many of you have been waiting for is in the SECOND half of this chapter, which is not going to be posted today. I will probably be posting that this weekend, because I don't want you guys to wait until next Friday for the second part. I hope this isn't too upsetting, but I promise it will be worth it. 
> 
> Anyway, you will get two updates this week as a result :D yay for you!

 

_It’s a fuzzy memory, even though it’s recent. A few months past, perhaps?_

_His sister is always a comforting presence. She’s brash, straightforward. No bullshit, none at all. She’s a perfect Greyjoy through and through, where Theon is more of a lost soul on a sinking ship. She is the anchor; he is the boat she tries to keep in place despite the pull of the current._

_She’s the captain at the helm, a born leader, fierce and fair. He’s a weary sailor who’s willing to throw himself at every mermaid looking to consume him, well aware it could mean his end. They couldn’t be more different, this pair of siblings._

_“He saw you on tv, you know.” His sister is drinking, says it’s fine to drink before noon. Theon agrees. “He got this heartbroken look on his face.”_

_The dream memory twists, shades of sepia. “Heartbroken? Certainly not over me.”_

_She touches his face, examines him with adoration. It’s been so long since they last met and even now they’ve met by chance. In a dive bar by the sea, no less. “When he sees you, you remind him of Maron.”_

_Theon scowls, sighs in disappointment. What had he hoped for really? That his father actually missed him? Thought anything of him, aside from his worthlessness? “I suppose you both see Maron in me.”_

_The eyes, the hair, even the bone structure. As Theon aged, even the sound of his voice became similar. Maron had been killed at twenty-one, forever young. At twenty-seven, Theon wonders if he’s somehow grown into a shadow of his brother._

_Yara frowns. “You remind me of him, just a bit. But you’re gentler.” She tweaks his nose with her finger._

_“Oh, give me a break. No Greyjoy worth his fucking salt is ‘gentle’.”_

_She laughs. “Our brothers were assholes who enjoyed making others feel small and worthless. Especially you. If you have a certain vulnerability to your gaze, I’d take it any day. You would rescue seagulls with broken wings, when you were a boy. Maron and Rodrik were the ones that would crush their skulls.”_

_“Well, no doubt that made father convinced I was the sissy boy of the family,” Theon mutters bitterly._

_“Sissy or not, you were never purposely cruel. Nor a compulsive liar that played games with others as japes.”_

_This is where she’s wrong about him and the dream darkens. Loathsome shadow and self-loathing an aura Theon can nearly see._

_“I am a liar though,” Theon whispers, staring out the bar windows, staring at the sea. He’s become their shadow; he wears disinterest and arrogance like a shield. Words have become weapons. His bitterness is his crown._

_Now, the expression that changes Yara’s face makes her look like she’s swallowed something awful, but can’t take it back. “You never lie about the things that can hurt other people…you lie about things that only hurt yourself, baby brother.”_

Theon wakes, encased in warmth, in darkness. Almost too warm, sweating. It’s the sort of waking that leaves you feeling half-awake, just on the edge of going back to sleep. A moment of wakefulness. Brief. Fleeting.

He vaguely understands that he is sleeping on his stomach, legs entangled with someone else’s. He’s half lying on another person’s body. Slowly, in a haze of exhaustion, he opens his eyes a bit, blinks because it’s hard to see in the dark.

It must still be night. Or early morning. All is silent aside from gentle breathing and the chirp of crickets outside. A window must be open, because Theon can almost feel a gentle breeze drift through the room, across his bare back. His limbs are heavy and so are his eyelids.

He’s been sleeping on top of a shirtless Ramsay Bolton, who is lying on his back, arms spread out wide, Theon draped over him like a human blanket. Ramsay’s deeply asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling, moving Theon with the rhythm of his breathing.

It strikes Theon sharply that this man looks so innocent, sleeping. With his eyes closed, his dark eyelashes are like soft wings against ivory. Ramsay’s neck is exposed and defenseless, a column of pale flesh made of stone aside from the pulse.

But though this scene is unusual, Theon is too tired, too half asleep to really care about his surroundings. Without putting up a fight, Theon lets sleep claim him again in wash of darkness.

 

* * *

 

The birds are singing loudly.

This time when Theon wakes, he’s alone.

He comes to himself slowly, the sun shining through the windows…somewhere in the room that he’s currently in. Without moving, Theon inhales deeply, smells the familiar scent of Ramsay in the sheets. Distantly, he knows it isn’t the scent of his cologne, but rather the natural scent of his body; something that reminds Theon of the forest, of nature.

Theon loves that smell, his fingers curling into the sheets as he inhales again.

Heat flares briefly in his belly at the scent, his mind providing the faint memory of Ramsay’s bare skin sliding against his in the shower. The solidness of him, the heat.

Then, Theon rolls onto his back and finds that movement to be a mistake, one that douses him in coldness. Agony zings through his body and he cries out involuntarily. He couldn’t have held back that noise even if he had wanted to. In a rush, Theon finds himself staring at the ceiling above him, fury pouring into his body in a wave.

It’s then that he _remembers what came before_.

“Mother…fucker…” he says through gritted teeth, feels every puncture wound on his back with an intensity that he would not have expected.

The sensation is not unlike watching a movie where someone fingers an open wound on screen. Pointed, painful, and makes you want to retch vaguely. Or look away.

With a snarl of agony, Theon sits up, feels every pull in his back. He reaches behind himself, tries to feel for the damage, but every point of pain seems to be covered by surgical tape and gauze. Just…moving hurts.

Bolton crossed a serious line last night. He’d blatantly ignored Theon’s safeword. Disregarded it with a smirk, didn’t seem to care that he’d lied. That he’d given Theon an illusion of safety with no intent of letting Theon actually be safe.

Sitting on Bolton’s ridiculously huge bed, tangled in his sheets, Theon groans miserably, runs his hands over his face with a hiss. Even through his anger, he wants to bury his face in the pillow that Bolton slept on last night, inhale his scent, and Theon has _never loathed himself more_.

Ridiculously, he wishes Bolton were here, in bed with him still. Wants to curl up against him and forget everything that had happened, pretend the other man hadn’t taken advantage of him, pretend that he didn’t step on any trust that had been there between them.

He pulls himself from the bed and looks around the room, trying to find a shirt to put on. Luckily, he finds his jeans neatly folded by the nice mahogany desk. Theon pulls them on with effort, wincing as he bends forward to get them on. He can’t find his shirt, so he looks for a closet. Bolton owes him a fucking shirt, if nothing else.

Theon finds the giant walk in closet that has a fucking chaise lounge in it. What. The Fuck. He doesn’t sit down on it, because that would make him stress his back even further. He looks at the different shirts and pants, suits, whatever. He grabs a plain t-shirt and pulls in on, wincing. It’s not a terrible fit, actually. Theon frowns; it makes him smell like Ramsay.

_As if you didn’t already; you’ve only been in bed with him the past few hours._

The bathroom is next and Theon tries to not be impressed once again, but fails. From the pristine granite counters to the stone carved walk in shower, it’s all rather striking. He washes his face in the sink and blinks at himself in the mirror. He looks tired, but the cold water should help some.

He’s not sure he recognizes himself anymore. Theon leaves the bathroom and looks out one of the large windows, shaking his head. “Where the hell am I?”

The forest stretches for miles and miles. As far as Theon can see. Shaking his head in disbelief, he mutters to himself, “Did he transport us to fucking Wonderland? How the hell am I getting home? Dammit.”

With a brief moment of hesitancy, he steps outside of the room, opening the door to a ridiculously large abode. In fact, it reminds him of a castle, the walls stone and brick. The halls seem to go on forever, winding around and around, wide open spaces furnished with outdated art.

Theon descends down the enormous bridal staircase, wondering how the hell he’s going to get home and wonders where the hell Bolton has disappeared off to. Theon _needs_ to give him a piece of his mind. When he hits what must be the first floor, he comes across a woman that is perhaps his age and…quite a bit bigger than Theon, to put it gently.

The woman has a sweet face, the kind that makes him instantly imagine her to be a nice person. Her eyes are soft and sparkly, despite the drab of the fucking fort Theon has found himself in. “Oh,” she says cheerily, “Hello! Did you stay back from the hunt?”

Theon frowns and tilts his head, brow furrowed. _The hunt?_ “Ah. No. I’m…one of Ramsay’s friends. Came in last night…I guess. I was out of it.” _To put it lightly._

She examines him carefully then, as if she is missing something. “I’m Walda. Ramsay’s step-mother. I’ve met a few of Ramsay’s friends before…you’re different.” At the expression on Theon’s face, she waves her hands in embarrassment. “That’s not a bad thing! You just, ah, don’t seem like the others…?”

When she speaks, she elongates the last words of a sentence, making it sound like she’s questioning everything that she says. While Theon is struggling to think of what to say, she gestures towards one of the halls. “Have you just gotten up? Have you eaten? You can…join me on the veranda for breakfast. If you want? It’s a beautiful view.”

A servant ( _a servant_!) walks past them with a cart loaded with juices, spreads, breads, bacon, and eggs. Along with an assortment of treats. Cinnamon rolls. French toast with browned bananas and caramel. Theon’s stomach rumbles immediately. The only thing he can think to say is, “Is there coffee?”

A soft smile comes to Walda’s face, dark eyes brightening. “Of course! Walter; bring another plate and glass will you? I’m stealing Ramsay’s company.” The servant nods sternly, continuing to roll away the cart through the next hall.

Walda is smiling widely, like a child in a candy shop. Theon wonders if she doesn’t get many guests of her own, if she’s lonely in this monster of a home. “Well,” she says, “Come on then, follow me…?”

“Theon. My name is Theon.”

She beams, like he’s said something wonderful. He can’t help but feel lifted in her presence. He follows her through the next hall, towards large open sliding doors, leading out onto a marvelous stone veranda, looking out across the trees and valleys for miles. This side of the fort must have been built on a hill, as the veranda looks out across the land. The birds are singing and there is so much peace that Theon almost can’t bear it.

“Where…I’m sorry…I was a little out of it last night and I’ve never been home with…Bol-...Ramsay before. Where are we?” Theon says haltingly, doesn’t want to sound like a complete invader in this unbelievable place.

Walda sits delicately at the table set out for them, the sun warm on their skin, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of flowers. “This is the Dreadfort. The real one,” she says softly. “I know Roose has that awful club with the same name, but this is our main home. Rather far from the city, but lovely all the same.”

 _It is lovely_ , Theon thinks begrudgingly. _It has a river,_ but _it doesn’t have the sea_.

When the food gets set out, Theon digs into the bacon and eggs with relish, buttering his toast and soaking it in the yolk. The coffee is on point and he hums with pleasure. Walda giggles and engages him in small talk. He likes her; she’s a nice girl. He doesn’t understand how she’s gotten herself married to Roose Bolton, but she seems unchanged by it.

The peace and quiet is marred by the sudden sound of a horn trumpeting out over the hills and through the trees. Theon nearly jumps out of his seat in shock. “What was that?”

Walda rolls her eyes. “The hunting party. Dreadful nuisance they are. Roose has his Hunt Club onsite here. We have the kennels over there,” she points towards a brick building to the left and then points to the right. “We also have the stables closer to the east side of the Dreadfort. The arenas and such for training. It’s a big tradition with the Bolton family.”

It momentarily floors Theon; there is so much he absolutely does not know about Ramsay Bolton. It’s like he’s uncovered some other planet that Bolton exists on. “Do they hunt often? What are they hunting today? And on horses?!”

The cheery woman shrugs her shoulders daintily sipping her tea. “Nothing today. I think it’s a mock hunt of some sort. They drag the scent of something around a course to keep the hounds excited, but really it’s just an excuse to race around the forest on horseback. They’ve been prepping since five this morning.”

Theon chokes on his coffee. Five in the morning? Now he understands why Bolton sometimes looks like he never sleeps. “And Ramsay is out with them for the hunt? I didn’t think he was the type for…sporting or whatever you call it.”

That’s an incorrect thought though. The more Theon thinks about it, the more it makes sense. He can see Bolton enjoying the thrill, the aspect of tracking prey. A sharp grin and sharper eyes as he scans the forest on horseback. Theon almost snorts at his own imagination. He _is_ mad at the guy, after all.

“Oh, yes. He controls the hounds; he’s the one blowing that infernal horn. Apparently, that keeps the dogs from going after other quarry, especially on a mock hunt. Roose is the Field Master, so most of our guests who come to join in follow his direction on the field.”

“That sounds…positively medieval,” Theon drawls, somehow managing to sound polite about it.

Walda claps her hands together and laughs. “It is, isn’t it? They should be coming back within the hour. The horses must be exhausted.”

“Ah. I’ve been meaning to ask. Do cab company’s come out here? Bol- Ramsay drove us here. Seems like he’s had a busy morning, I’d rather not bother him to get me back.” In reality, Theon doesn’t want to spend much time in Bolton’s presence, can’t bear the idea of being driven back by him.

_How could he lie to me like that? How could he sit there and grin while hooking me like an animal? When I begged him not to?_

“Of course they do. I’ll have Walter call one for you. It will take some time for them to arrive though, so I’ll have him call shortly.”

“Thanks. I uh…appreciate that,” Theon responds.

Walda sits up suddenly and points. “Look. Some of the riders are coming back now. If you’re looking for Ramsay before you go, you should be able to find him rather easily.” She halts, the smiles shyly. “It was lovely meeting you, Theon. I do hope you come back!”

Theon stands up and brushes himself off, taking one last sip of his coffee. “The cinnamon buns were delicious, Walda. Thanks for inviting me. You’re delightful,” he winks, lays it on thick, because a sweet girl like her needs a wink every once in a while.

She blushes and laughs, waving him off. “Go! The stairs to the left will take you down to the grass. I’m sure you’ll find Ramsay down there somewhere.”

When Theon gets down to the open land between the stables and kennels, he looks at the different riders coming back, trying to figure out who might possibly be the man that is causing all the anger to build in his breast.

He needs to say something. Anything. He can’t just leave without letting it be known that Ramsay fucked up.

Riders pass him by, the sound of hooves loud on the firm ground. Theon stands and waits, fuming. A man with a hoard of hounds comes out of the forest on foot, but the man isn’t Ramsay. Then, two riders come out of the trees, the horses close together as one rider in a red coat holds both reins.

It becomes clear, based on the sound of the berating voice echoing across the open, that the rider in red is Ramsay, up on a large bay horse. “That was an absolutely disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Ramsay is sneering at the young boy on the other horse as he rides them over to one of the fenced arenas. “Your father doesn’t pay for you to ride here like a complete failure.”

As they get closer, Theon can see tears streaming down the boy’s face, probably no older than fourteen. “I’m sorry,” the boy says in a shaking voice, “She’s too hard to control around the dogs.”

“I find that hard to believe, considering I trained her myself,” Ramsay snaps, sliding off his horse and handing his reins to a stablehand. “It’s you. Get in the ring. Show me you can control her with dogs around or you’re never riding her again.”

With a pale face that looks terrified, the boy rides the chestnut mare into the ring, hands tightly gripping the reins. The reins are short, even Theon can see that, the mare tossing her head left and right in irritation.

“Let go of her face,” Ramsay yells, leaning on the fence, not noticing as Theon comes to stand a little closer. “You deserve to have your ass thrown.”

With a sharp whistle, three hounds appear at Ramsay’s side and he send them into the ring. They lay down at his command, in sight of the horse. “Trot on, let’s see if you can get her past the hounds.”

The boy does as told, but as soon as they approach the hounds, the horse drops her rear and spins, tearing off to the other side of the ring. The boy is dumped on the ground with a loud thud. Theon winces; it sounded painful.

Ramsay is smiling cruelly down at the boy. “Well. I expected that. Get back on. Stop your sniveling and get back on that mare. Do it again, but this time _do it_. If you let that mare hurt one of my hounds again, I swear, I’ll tan your hide.”

The boy sniffs, wiping his face. “You can’t. I tell my father-”

“I’ll fucking tell your father!” Ramsay yells, voice resounding loudly across the open air. “Then I’ll tan his hide for raising such a lily-livered cunt!”

The boy looks like he’s been slapped. No one’s probably ever spoken to him like that, judging by the expression on his face. Theon snorts; a fancy little rich boy who’s always gotten what he’s wanted, clearly.

Wiping himself off, the boy hobbles over to his horse with a limp and gets back on with a slight hiss. He trots towards the hounds again, but the mare tosses her head violently, throwing her back hooves out repeatedly, beginning to rear. The boy panics. “I can’t! I can’t get her to stop!”

“Because she knows you’re scared. _I_ know you’re scared. Get her past these dogs. If you let her hurt one of my animals again, you won’t like what I do. You’ve already injured one of my hounds today with your stupidity.”

A few more moments of the disaster show pass by, the boy unable to control the flighty mare. Ramsay groans and snaps, “Get off. I’ll ride her…you’d better hope I get the same bad behavior.”

The boy slides off the horse and hands the reins to Ramsay with an upset face, hate in his eyes. Ramsay sneers down at the kid and pushes him towards the fence. Theon comes to rest against the wood fence, crossing his arms over the top rail. Secretly, he hopes the terrifying mare launches Ramsay too.

Ramsay gets on and trots her in a few circles on the far end, working her through the paces repeatedly until she begins to sag into the bit. He turns her and pushes her into a canter, rides her towards the hounds. Theon holds his breath, waits for it.

The mare stutters in her stride, ears pricking forward as her head dips to stare the hounds down. She begins to sit her haunches down, prepares to spin, but Ramsay cracks her on the neck with the crop in his hand, pushes his hips forward, snarling, “ _Move on_.”

With a slight tantrum, the mare continues past the hounds, leaps through the air a bit, but continues forward. Ramsay keeps her moving, turns her back past the patiently sitting hounds and this time, she doesn’t even flinch. She canters by, large strides without a thought of stopping.

Ramsay brings her to a halt and stares down the boy. “She was reluctant, I’ll give you that. But you don’t have the personality for this horse, you’re not a fit. Your days on this horse are over. Your dad can get you an old nag better suited to your skills.”

The boy covers his reddening face. “But. She’s mine-”

With a nasty smile, Ramsay cocks his head to the side, enjoying the boy’s tears. “Actually, your father leases this horse. I own her. I’m ending the lease. I’ll advise your father on a better suited animal for you.”

Ramsay dismounts and hands the reins to the boy, whose shoulders are now shaking with hidden sobs. “Put her away. I trust you can at least do that. Can’t screw that up, can you?”

The boy walks away dejectedly, leading the horse back towards the stables. “You’re a complete asshole, you know that?” Theon calls out to Ramsay, who is sliding mud off his black boots.

In shock, Ramsay turns to face Theon, blinking. It's painful seeing Bolton, seeing him and being torn between wanting to punch him and wanting to crawl into his arms. The force of Theon's emotions shocks him, his heart thudding roughly as he holds the other man's piercing gaze. Bolton speaks lightly, “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough. This is an interesting place you’ve got. You’re like a modern lord or something. Bet you love that,” Theon says, trying to keep the ugly out of his tone. “Holding dominion over man and beast alike.”

Ramsay snorts, takes his helmet off as he comes over to Theon. He smells of horse and forest, sweat on his forehead. “Yeah, well. Welcome to the real Dreadfort. My father runs a Hunt Club here. I train the animals. People can be trained too, but people can be so distracting; they always cry and whine along the way.”

“I bet you like that.”

A wry grin. “Of course. That’s why it’s distracting. My night work has been catching up with me though, so I don’t get to participate in the hunt as much as I would like.” Bolton gestures to the Dreadfort and says, “Let’s go back. I need to get out of this outfit, I’m soaked in sweat.”

Theon holds his breath. Tells himself he can't, he has to leave, he can't let this man walk all over him and get away with it. “I’m actually going home.”

The other man pauses in his stride, boots crunching dirt. Bolton eyes Theon, looks him up and down before examining his face carefully. “Oh. Oh, I see. Are we having another crisis, you and I?”

Scowling, Theon says, “You make it sound so trivial.”

“I don’t even know what ‘ _it_ ’ is. I’m not a mind-reader.”

Theon isn’t even surprised that the subtle intricacies of what Bolton did the night before are completely beyond him. It doesn’t even register with the other man that his bad behavior and lies have consequences. If it does register, he thinks it’s something he can sweep under the rug.

Theon imagines Bolton has lived a life without consequences, based on what he’s seen here.

“I don’t like being lied to,” Theon says tightly, gritting his teeth. “And I sure as hell don’t like being hooked against my will and hung from a fucking contraption.”

Rolling his eyes, Bolton groans. “You can’t be serious. You _are_ serious? So, I didn’t listen to your little safeword. Too fucking bad, Greyjoy, shit happens. You’re tough, I know you are. This is a non-issue. Now, let’s go back inside.”

Staying firm, Theon calmly states, “I already told you. I’m going home now. I’m not going inside with you and I’m not going to pretend all is peachy keen. It isn’t.”

“Alright, I fucking scared you, lied to you, and strung you up like a piece of meat. _Fine_. I took care of you afterwards though, like a fucking angel,” Bolton snaps, eyes going hard. “I don’t do that for anyone. Ever. You should be more appreciative.”

Theon throws his head back and laughs, awful like soured milk. “Appreciative? I got high off fucking pain, because my body went off its rocker. Because _you didn’t listen_ to me when I said to stop! No, I’m not fucking appreciative.”

Bolton’s eyes narrow with every word that comes out of Theon’s mouth, but frankly Theon doesn’t care.

“Did you like it?” Bolton asks suddenly, looking like the question had slipped out of his mouth against his will.

Exasperated, Theon says, “Did I like what?”

He looks reluctant. “Did you like…what we did together last night? Some part of you must have. I know it. I wasn’t completely terrible to you.” The question surprises Theon; it’s raw and leaves Ramsay exposed to harm.

He’s exposed to Theon in a way he rarely exposes himself, always in closed off and in control. Theon never imagined that Ramsay wanted something out of what they did together. Well, aside from the pain. Theon gazes up at the blue sky, vaguely noting the clouds.

The memories of the night before are emblazoned in Theon’s mind, like a burning brand. The sheer horror, the terror, the adrenaline. The feeling of floating and becoming nothing. Skin on skin, held close and safe under a steady stream of hot water. He answers honestly. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

Incredulously, Ramsay seems to sag in some form of relief, looking well-cut in his white breeches and red coat. Before he can speak, Theon interrupts him. “But you fucking terrified me and you ignored my safeword completely. You have no idea what that felt like. You went too fucking far.”

For once, Bolton can’t seem to school his face into his typical emotionless mask. Disdain shapes the lines of his visage. “I knew it wouldn’t do any permanent damage. You’ll heal just fine.”

“But I didn’t know!” Theon yells furiously, his voice cracking. “I was at your mercy and thought you were about to tear my bones right out of my flesh with those hooks!”

 _This is a waste of time, he’ll never change. He does what he wants because he enjoys it._ Growling wordlessly, Theon spins on his heel and storms away, towards what looks like the drive path to the main road.

“Stop. Stop walking away!” Ramsay lunges after him, tries to stop Theon from walking further. “You’ll get over this.”

It almost sounds like a command. Like he’s _telling_ Theon to get over it, not consoling him that he will eventually be fine. This doesn’t sit well with Theon, not one bit. Because everything with Bolton is a command, Theon is well aware of that fact.

“You can’t even apologize, can you? Unbelievable,” Theon hisses, taking a moment to glare at Bolton, shaking out of his grip.

“You were incredible,” he says to Theon’s back. “I was so proud of you. And…you let go in the end. You gave in to the pain. We don’t need to fight over this.”

Theon clenches his fists, feels trapped. He feels like running because he’s never heard Ramsay do that. He’s never heard him tell the truth like that.

Theon looks over his shoulder and deadpans, “Without a safeword, who is going to keep me safe from you?”

Bolton rolls his eyes and tries his best to hide the ugly thoughts that Theon can _literally_ see brewing in his gaze. “You don’t need a fucking safeword. Just trust that I won’t kill you or maim you. Does that work?”

“No, it doesn’t work!” Theon hollers, pointing with exaggeration. “Your idea of _fun_ does not align with mine! You even told me, in the very beginning, not to trust you. I don’t fucking trust you worth a damn. Especially not now.”

Theon turns and starts walking down the long winding road. He knows he can meet the cab at the end, by the main road. “Just what do you think you’re going to do? Walk home? Don’t be stupid,” Bolton snaps after him, a hint of darkness creeping into his tone. His black leather gloves creak as he clenches his fists.

“I’m taking a cab.”

“No cab is going to get here for at least another half an hour. Let me drive you home. I’m driving you home,” Bolton says, changing his tone from asking to telling within a single heartbeat.

Theon looks Bolton over, sees a physical fight waiting to happen along the lines of tension in his body. “You want control of the situation again, that’s what you fucking want.”

“Theon-”

He never calls Theon by his first name, but Theon recognizes it for manipulation. “No. I…I can’t stand to be around you right now. The way I feel right now? I’d strangle you in the middle of the drive back.”

Bolton’s eyes are wide as he looks at Theon, his throat working. He looks torn between being mass-murder ticked off and begging Theon to reconsider. “I get that you’re angry, but-”

Theon stops him, can’t let him talk his way out of this, because in Theon’s heart he wants to be talked out of how he feels. He doesn’t want to feel betrayed, hurt, and angry. But he needs to. He needs to feel these things. “Your stepmother called me a cab, earlier. She knew it would take a while for one to get here. Just…go back to bed, Bolton. You’re exhausted.”

“Are you telling me what to do? Are you walking away from me?” Bolton says, voice unraveling, a hint of a meltdown showing in his gaze, though he tries to hide it.

Tries to hide the unrestrained monster that hides in his skin.

Theon’s very familiar with how Bolton’s meltdown’s go now, it’s written in his back now. Skin deep injuries. Theon stomps over to him and pushes him back a step. “Yes. I’m telling you to fucking sleep and get your head screwed back on straight. You’re out of line and I’m done with it.”

Fury changes Bolton’s face and he looks like he’d love to rip Theon’s face off and wear it like a Halloween mask. Theon isn’t completely sure that he wouldn’t like to do the same to Bolton at this point.

The cab rolls up slowly and Theon waves it over, Bolton schooling his face carefully. Ah yes, can’t go all crazy axe murderer in front of a cabbie, now can we? Without another word, Theon storms over to the cab, ready to fucking leave.

“But…I took care of you. Isn’t that enough? You’re not…you’re not going to someone else, are you?” The question slips out of Bolton’s lips and he looks like he regrets saying the words. “You _can’t_ go.”

Theon pauses just outside of the cab, something ugly twisting in him. He chooses his words carefully. “It seems like you’re always going to do what you want, Bolton, even if I beg you not to. If you’re going to do what you want, then so am I. No amount of care is going to change that.”

There’s vague horror on Bolton’s face at his words and Theon takes pleasure in the fact that he’s taken control away, that he’s put Bolton in an uncomfortable place.

Ramsay Bolton doesn’t like not having control.

Theon steps into the cab and slams the door. As he tells the driver his address, he forces himself to not look at Ramsay, who he can tell is still standing there, where Theon left him. Theon doesn’t want to look at the expression on his face.

The cab ride is long enough, probably forty-five minutes to Theon’s place. The Dreadfort is truly out a ways from the center of the Northern city realm. A scenic route, to be sure, but one long enough for Theon to dwell on everything that he doesn’t want to face.

Shame and regret churn inside of Theon like a sickened whirlpool, heated and filled with dirt. He hates how he wants what he wants and where it has led him. He’s failed himself; he’s always known what Ramsay is like.

And yet.

He never imagined that the other man would completely ignore him while he begged him to stop.

 _Don’t lie to yourself,_ a dark part of Theon growls mockingly, _you’ve known all along. You’ve known all along that he’s not the kind of man to stop. That’s why you want him; because he terrifies you. Because he’s a monster that you deserve._

_Shut up. No one deserves that._

_You do, Theon. You do._

He’s glad that Bolton doesn’t text him while he’s in the cab. Theon might have turned around if he had.

* * *

 

When he gets home, Theon takes Ramsay’s shirt off, throws it somewhere, anywhere. He smells like him; his scent is all over Theon and he’s tempted to go take a shower even though he had one the night before and probably shouldn’t get his gauze wet.

He examines his back in the mirror, the backs of his arms and legs. Based on the size of those hook, Theon figures many of these wounds will scar, an eternal memory of what he allowed to happen to him. Theon’s got no one to blame but himself for this. Everyone warned him what Bolton is like.

The problem is, Theon just doesn’t listen. Doesn’t care. His self-destructive urges know no bounds.

_I need to stay away from him. I can’t just crawl back, like he always assumes I will. He needs to learn a lesson. He can’t just do what he wants at will without regard for me._

Ha. As if Theon is the one to teach him this lesson.

The whiskey bottle on his countertop calls for him, but Theon tells himself he doesn’t need it, he is strong enough to cope with this strange emptiness eating him inside. This absence that is growing wider and more terrifying.

He doesn’t want to be without Ramsay Bolton, but he needs to for his own sanity. For the sake of his pride.

That night, he tries to not remember how it felt, being pressed against Bolton in the shower. Tries to not tell himself that he could have so much more with him if Theon just crawls back like a good dog. Bolton is vast extremes; he can give Theon great misery and excessive pleasure all in one if he just gives in.

But he won’t. He won’t be so easy this time.

And it hurts, like a hole in his chest.

* * *

 

Theon finds ways to pass time over the endless days. He tries to fill the void with healthy engagements, tries to ignore his usual coping methods that are far more destructive.

Kyra is one of his healthier coping mechanisms. She calls him one day to hang out. “Hey. I’m heading over to Dany’s house. Want to come with? I miss you, you great silly.”

Well, why not? Theon grins slightly. He’s got a thing or two that he could ask Dany. A thing or two about Jon. Few people knew that Jon was passed off as Ned Stark’s bastard son, but in reality, it was a cover for a much larger scandal. Throw Dany in the mix and you really have some dirt.

Even though Jon is technically a cousin by blood for the Stark children, they all still call him brother. Even Theon calls him brother. It’s just the way of things.

“Yeah. I’ll come with. I’ve missed the Breaker of Balls lately.”

“I hope you don’t call her that to her face, Theon.” Kyra scolds.

“She loves it,” Theon laughs.

 

* * *

 

He’s ignored a few calls, over the past two weeks. Every time he sees that number, that name, his insides burn away and feel sore. As the weekend approaches again, Theon knows Ramsay is going to be wondering _where_ he is, _who_ he’s with, and _what_ he’s doing if he’s not with Ramsay.

Theon’s last words, telling him that Theon intends to do whatever he wishes, must be driving him up the wall.

They’re like gasoline and open flame; an explosion always waiting to happen. They’re both angry about _something_ and neither are up for apologizing, as it isn’t in their nature. Theon’s felt the drag ever since the last day he saw Ramsay, at his damn castle of a home. It’s a rock lodged in his chest, one weighing him down painfully. He can barely breathe, feels like he’s suffocating under misery in the absence of the person he wants to be with, but shouldn’t.

There’s an open wound between them and it won’t get fixed until someone gives and it sure as hell won’t be Theon. It won’t. Not this time.

By Saturday, the calls have gotten obnoxious. By the fifth missed call, Theon picks up the phone.

“So,” Ramsay is saying darkly. “Are we back to this again? I push too hard and you run away, is that it?”

“I need some space,” Theon says firmly. Secretly, he’s hoping Ramsay will just apologize, so Theon can justify coming back to him.

Ramsay makes an ugly noise into the receiver. “Space? It’s been two weeks. You don’t need any more fucking space. What you need is to be here with me.”

Even as he says the words, Theon thinks, _you need me there more than I need you._

Tries to convince himself that’s fact.

“We can’t all get what we want, can we?” Theon says darkly, angry. “You cannot screw with me, Bolton. You can’t cross my boundaries and expect me to just come back for more. We’ve been over this!”

The other man growls on the other end. “You’ve got it wrong, Greyjoy. _I’m_ the one that you _cannot_ screw with.”

An incoherent sound of rage works its way out of Theon’s chest. “Watch me. When you’re ready to accept my limits, let me fucking know! Until then, you can suck. My. Fat. Dick.”

“Come back to me now, Greyjoy.” He’s using that light, conversational tone again, the one he uses when he’s trying to be persuasive, to hide the ugly under the surface. “I’m losing my patience with you.”

“Are you going to admit you were in the wrong, you fucking liar?”

“ _Cunt_ ,” Ramsay hisses on the other end, inhaling sharply to start some tirade no doubt.

Theon takes that as a no, so Theon hangs up and screams furiously at the empty room.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Theon and the band have photoshoots and three days of showing. Theon is glad for the escape.

This time, the alcohol and the drugs call Theon strongly, a different sort of pain begging to be rectified. The moment he gets on the bus for the trip to the photo studio, he’s digging through the wet bar. “Why do we have no ice?”

“Did you buy any?” Littlefinger says lightly from the couch, flipping through his book slowly.

“No.”

A small smirk graces Littlefinger’s lips. “That would be why.”

Theon grabs the whiskey bottle and scowls. “I thought that’s what the agency paid you for. To get us ice for our bus.” He starts drinking straight from the bottle and Littlefinger wrinkles his nose in distaste.

Robb makes a gagging noise as he watches Theon. “Isn’t it a little early to start going that hard? We have pictures in like…thirty minutes.”

It’s just after noon. Theon shrugs and takes another pull, relishes the burn and the heat in his body that it inspires. After a few more pulls, his muscles and joints will become lax and maybe then he can focus on things that aren’t Ramsay Bolton. “It’s never too early to start. Besides, all my best pictures happen when I’m tipsy.”

“Tipsy, yes. Hammered? No chance,” Gendry says, twirling his drumsticks around his fingers idly.

“At least he will look authentic then,” Jon says with that short, almost-there-but-not-quite-smile.

“How about you all let a man drink in peace? Yeah? Thanks,” Theon snaps irritably.

The problem with the alcohol is that as his mind softens, so does his stupid heart. He wants to text Ramsay, which is an absolutely unforgivable thought. He needs to drink to forget him, not get motivation to go back to him.

It’s funny; he almost feels like his old self, willing to drown in drugs and alcohol in a blaze of glory. Theon’s always been a tad bit tragic.

The photoshoot is fun, though Theon is probably more of a handful than he realizes, too full of liquor to care by the end of it. There’s champagne at the studio and he graciously breaks into that when he arrives. He wants the ache to dissolve, this emptiness and vast hurt to fade into the horizon and be forgotten.

He wants to drink until his face is numb and he can’t remember those eyes anymore. Until he can’t remember what betrayal looks like.

They examine the pictures afterwards and Jon shakes his head. “Well, Theon looks like a good time in these pictures. The groupies will love it.”

Theon pumps his fist, grinning too wide to be real. “Boom! Getting all those bitches excited, it’s what I do.”

Robb pats him on the back, nodding in solidarity. “That you do, my freaky friend. That you do.”

They should have seen the downward spiral preparing to take flight, but no one figured Theon was ready to take a fall.

The next few days pass in a blur and Theon does _everything_ he can get his hands on. Cocaine, pills, alcohol. He’s in a constant haze, heart torn between pounding madly and being so high he can’t feel his own skin.

It all mixes into one horrible mess and one night he wakes up to Robb dousing him in the shower, yelling at him to wake the fuck up. He’s sitting on the bottom of the tub and Robb is standing over him.

“Enough! What has gotten in to you?” Robb yells under the shower spray, so cold that they both begin to shiver.

“Why the fuck are we in the shower?” Theon’s furiously confused, everything is spinning, but he’s coming to, his stomach feels ill. His stomach twists and he leans forward to vomit violently.

It feels like all of his organs are pouring out of his mouth in one go and the pain that seizes his chest causes him to cry out in pain.

“I thought you had stopped breathing,” Robb says, his voice cracking terribly. “You’ve gone off the rails again and I don’t know why.”

Blinking away the drugged feelings, Theon stares up at Robb and feels like he’s been stabbed. Robb looks torn, devastated and Theon has done this to him. “I’m sorry,” Theon rasps, his throat aching. “It’s…I don’t…somethings wrong with me.”

He throws up again, large heaves that wrack his entire body. It’s horrible and he deserves every awful second of it. Robb crouches down, shaking with cold, rubs Theon’s back. “Do I need to send you to the facility again? Is it like last time?”

It’s not like last time and Theon shakes his head, sobs. “No. You don’t need to do that. I’ve just been fucking around, I can stop. I’ll stop.”

He won’t touch heroin again and he _hasn’t_. He promised Robb. He hasn’t sunk that low yet, hopes he never will again. He’s just doing more of everything else to try and get the same effect.

Robb slaps him, more of a love tap than anything. His blue eyes are pained, like his heart is breaking as he looks at Theon and it’s unbearable. “You need to stop cold. Or you’re going to kill yourself.”

Perhaps that’s what Theon had been trying to do all along.

* * *

 

A day later they travel home on the bus and Theon’s body and soul are exhausted. Theon lies on the bed in back beside Jon, who is studiously texting Ygritte in the dark. Theon rubs his aching eyes and asks Jon how his thing with the redhead is going.

“Fine. She always gets anxious when I leave for these things. How’s your _thing_ going?” Jon asks back, the screen pouring light on his face.

He’s been doing enough drugs to not think about it, that’s how his thing has been going. Theon doesn’t say that out loud though, but he’s sure Jon can imagine it, based on Theon’s actions this trip. “Not sure, really. And it isn’t _a thing_.”

A quick smile shapes Jon’s lips in the dark. His smile is always fleeting, like he isn’t sure he knows how to make the expression of amusement. “Ha. That’s not what I heard.”

“Oh, stuff it,” Theon groans, hitting him with a pillow.

Jon’s phone goes flying on impact. With a long-suffering scowl, Jon snaps the pillow back into Theon’s face. He leans over the edge of the bed and feels around for his phone, sighing when he finally finds it again. “So. Does he threaten to take your dick off if you use it? Ygritte does that to me, all the fucking time. She is super jealous.” Jon says it with all seriousness and Theon can’t help but chuckle.

It actually reminds him of Bolton. Of those times he wanted to make sure Theon wasn’t fooling around with other people on tour, letting himself be dominated by others. Bolton is a controlling bastard; the idea of seeing someone else written on Theon’s skin always spins him out. At first, Theon found it utterly obnoxious, because he can screw whoever he likes, but eventually he started…enjoying that feeling of knowing that someone else felt so strongly about owning him. “I don’t think he cares about that really…it’s other stuff that pisses him off.”

Jon sits up, leans against the back wall of the bus, wincing as they go over a bump. “What I don’t get is how a guy like you ended wanting to bone a dude like him. You’ve always been all about the groupies.”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Theon hisses quietly, not wanting the guys in front to hear anything. “I’m not screwing him. It isn’t like that. I like women.”

“That might be, but do you want to?” If Jon is judging Theon, he’s not letting it show on his passive face, eyes like the night sky, endless and dark. “It isn’t like that means you don’t like women.”

The question is striking and Theon feels it like a hammer to his sternum. He’s pushed it down for a long time, his desire to touch Bolton in a way that isn’t…well, isn’t how he normally wants to touch guys. He’s struggled with disgust for himself, revulsion at the sorts of dreams he’s had. Theon tells himself he doesn’t need to act on it, it’s just an aftereffect of the strong emotions that Bolton evokes when they play.

He fears it makes him less of a man, what he feels. The painful fact is, Theon has never felt this way about someone else before. He’s picked up women left and right more times than he can count; ditched them too. He’s been dumped before, on the rare occasion. It never impacted him, it was just another person who came and left.

This time though…he feels an aching gap. There’s a hole in him that he found fulfilled and now it’s been torn open again. A bloody open wound that won’t close or heal. A sickness inside that he wishes he could rip out with a knife, but can’t, no matter how hard he tries.

Bolton is no good for him, but Theon has always been too fucked in the head to do what’s right.

“I don’t know, Jon. What we have…it isn’t that simple. I don’t even know what we are,” Theon says covering his face again, sighing loudly.

“Theon,” Jon says softly. “I’m not Robb. I’m not going to save you from every bad choice you make. I _will_ tell you that Bolton is the wrong choice, but maybe you need to burn before you learn what that means.”

With those words, he gently pats Theon on the shoulder before getting off the bed, leaving to go join the others in the front of the bus. They are almost home. Theon stares after him for a moment, frowning. His body fucking hurts; he’s abused it these past few days. Weeks.

It’s strange; he still hasn’t gotten a call from Bolton, not since the last blow out on the phone. Doesn’t know what that means, but for some reason it scares him. He opens the screen on his phone and his thumb hovers.

Theon has this come to church moment, sitting there, sitting at his blank device. _What do you want? WHAT do you WANT?_

Maybe he does want Ramsay. Maybe Theon wants to go down in flames, let himself burn away into ash under than devastating gaze that strips him bare. Maybe he does want one night of sin, just prove to himself that it’s a momentary madness, that Bolton isn’t different from all the other women Theon has used and left behind.

He’s at war with himself in his head, opposing thoughts colliding.

_Do you really think he even wants you?_

_How can you think that he doesn’t? He wants to own you._

Theon groans. He needs to end this insanity. He’s losing his mind over someone he’s never even slept with and perhaps that’s half the problem.

_He never apologized for what he did. He’s never promised you anything. He’s going to hurt you again. Is that what you want?_

Unfortunately, Theon thinks the answer is **yes**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your kudos and comments make my day!! <3
> 
> As I stated up at the top- the second part of this monster chapter will be coming later this weekend. I simply could not have this be a 15,000 words chapter. It would have just been too much in one go and I want physical separation between two events that occur in this. 
> 
> Stay tuned: the second part has something many of you have been waiting for. You will notice that I have extended the fic to 19 chapters now, due to this giant chapter having to be split. I hope you understand!!!


	13. The Hunter & The Hound Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
>  **AN:** Here is Part II of The Hunter  & The Hound. If you missed Part I the other day, click the back button and catch up ;) It's a two for one this week people. 
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNINGS:** In this chapter, there is a scene that contains **extremely dubious consent** and can be interpreted as forced oral between two characters who do not like each other at all. These two characters are not who you expect. There are other elaborations I could make, but I don't want to spoil anything. Just know, the scene may be upsetting to some.
> 
> Beyond that- all tags are in effect. Internalized homophobia, slurs, degradation, explicit language, sexual content, feminization, mentions of drug addiction, and a whole host of others (but I'm not spoiling things!)

* * *

* * *

_'Cause I'm tired of feeling comatose_  
_I've lost the me that I loved most_  
_I'm barely holding on to smoke_  
_But I'm holding on, I'm holding on_

 _I'm tired of being human, tired of being numb_  
_I'm waiting for the holy ghost to come_  
_So save me from the webs that I have spun_

_Holding on to Smoke – Motionless in White  
_

* * *

* * *

 

It’s been three weeks since they last saw each other.

This is been the longest that they’ve ever been apart since they first started their twisted engagement. Theon hadn’t expected it to affect him as hard as it does. All along, he’d thought he’d been punishing Bolton for his wrongdoing, yet instead Theon feels like he’s been punishing himself.

Nearly every moment apart has been spent thinking of the ‘what-ifs’. Every lucid moment, anyway. So much time had been spent on dwelling on the idea of just going back, just pretending it had never happened, but Theon knows that would be folly.

What he wanted wasn’t right and he shouldn’t want what he wants. He shouldn’t want to be with the person who makes him feel like becoming some sad martyr. An animal that can be used and abused at its master’s whim.

He can either give up on what he has or he can try to get Bolton to bend, just a little. This absence though, this distance; it can’t go on. The misery is eating Theon from the inside out. He despises his twisted heart; of all the people it could have fixated on, it had to fix on a man, firstly. Secondly, why did he have to want a sadist with no limits?

When Theon gets back from the three day hell-hole of a tour, he waits until Friday night to go back to the club. He feels like he’s going to his own execution.

But, it has to be done, or he will never have closure. However this pans out, good or bad, he just needs to put a nail in the coffin. Can Bolton accept that he stepped over a dangerous line or does Theon just need to cut his losses, no matter how painful?

His throat tightens upon seeing the dark red letters glowing above the entrance to the club, _Dreadfort._ Theon tries to slow his breathing as he gets to the front of the line. The bouncer gives him a funny look. “Been awhile since you’ve been here. The DM get tired of you?”

Theon doesn’t answer, he just gives the man a dark glare. He isn’t in the mood. The bouncer doesn’t seem to sense that he’s walking on a fine line. The man laughs shortly. “Or, did you get sick of him?

“None of your business,” Theon snaps as the man pats him down.

He goes to give the bouncer the cover fee, but the man shrugs. “He still hasn’t told me that you need to pay to enter. Maybe he still feels charitable towards you.”

Theon enters the club and wipes the sweat from his brow, anxious. He wonders if he should get a drink first, but he isn’t sure he can control himself, isn’t sure he can stick with just one drink. Robb wants him to stop completely for a bit, to reset himself. For once, Theon agrees; after these past few weeks, every drink leads to more and more and more endlessly until he blacks out.

He can’t do that anymore and certainly not tonight. He needs to drop one addiction for another.

“Ah, look who has come back.” Arms slide around Theon’s waist from behind and he looks over his shoulder, sees a familiar face. Kyra. “Here to see me for once, I hope?”

He sighs and turns in her arms, kisses her nose lightly. “You know that’s not the case.”

“Party-pooper,” She says with a slight air of disappointment, dragging him to the dance floor, letting them disappear into the mob. “Dance with me for a while.”

Theon closes his eyes, moves with the slow, ominous beat. Something dark and sexy that he can appreciate as he holds her in his arms. When he opens his eyes again, she’s looking up at him, the club lights playing games with her face.

“So, what is going on with your master?” Kyra asks mockingly, arms slung around Theon’s neck. Her hips grind against his and he gives her a sloppy grin out of habit. “He’s been in that dungeon of his more often than not since you’ve been gone…and you’ve been strangely absent for some time.”

“Oh, is he officially mine? I didn’t get the memo on that.”

“Meh, probably not, knowing him. He’s still seeing clients. He’s been seeing them more, actually.” Kyra tilts her head, cocks her eyebrows. “I think he’s mad at you.”

_Of course he is, prick._

Her words give Theon a bad taste in his mouth. He tries to not think of how he feels when Ramsay works with other people, how envious he gets when someone else has his full attention. “Wouldn’t he do that anyway? Work with other clients even if we were an official pair?”

“Depends on the dom and sub. Some people don’t play outside their relationship. He certainly wouldn’t share you, that’s for sure.”

Theon presses closer to her, presses her up against his chest as they dance. “Whoa. Wait. He and I are not in a relationship.”

Kyra sighs and steps back from Theon with a strangely sorrowful look that’s struggling to look okay with it all. “Theon, you and I both know that I’ve been trying to tie you down for years. Let’s face it; he’s the only one who has ever come close.”

She holds his hand, biting her own lower lip with a heartbreaking expression on her face. Theon wants that look to go away; wishes he didn’t make her feel like this. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words barely heard over the music.

“I know,” Kyra says, pulling away, her hand slowly sliding out of his as she disappears back into the crowd.

A ghost in a packed room.

With a sigh, feeling like the worst man on the planet, Theon wades out of the dancefloor, squeezing past groups of people. Makes his way to where he knows he must go. Down, down into the depths, under the ground, into the underbelly where the evil king holds his court.

He tries to not think about Bolton playing with other people in Theon’s absence. It stings. But it also proves that Theon hit him where it hurt, that Bolton had to use others to fill the void that Theon left in his wake.

Theon copes with drugs; Bolton copes with torture.

When he gets to the door, he opens it without preamble, happy to note that Damon and that other door goon are absent tonight. Theon isn’t in the mood to deal with their leers and scathing looks. What he finds on the other side of the door makes his heart jump up into his throat painfully.

What he sees almost knocks him over, the sight a blow to his chest.

  _That…bitch._

Instinctual jealousy overwhelms him, like pins up his spine, rotten food in his belly.

Myranda kneels on a waist high table, completely bare, on hands and knees. Bolton is plunging hypodermic needles of horrifyingly varying sizes into her flesh. There are dozens upon dozens of needles, all along her thighs, hips, her breasts, her back…everywhere. She’s fucking moaning, like every needle shoved under her skin is a cock in her cunt.

Theon hates her with a passion that has him wanting to vomit on Bolton’s pristine fucking floor. Theon is a bit shocked by the scene before him and feels a coil of irritation, his face twisting. This is not what he had been expecting to walk into.

Literally, anything else would probably have been better received. Anyone else. _Anyone_.

She’s pressing her hips back at Ramsay, like she’s desperate for something _else_ to penetrate her and Theon wants to knock her off that fucking table. Treat a lady nice be damned. He lets his gaze drift over to Bolton and finally sees that the other man has seen his appearance in the room.

Bolton is holding another needle in his grasp, eyes boring into Theon intensely. Almost unnoticeably, his breathing changes. He’s almost still, aside from the way that his inhales become more noticeable, faster. Theon feels the room tilt under his feet, doesn’t know what to say, it’s been so long. The longing he feels now that they are face to face is excruciating.

Theon doesn’t forgive Bolton, no, but Theon _wants_ him despite the fact.

They stare at each other for a few moments before Ramsay rolls his eyes at Theon mockingly, hiding his true feelings at Theon’s unexpected arrival. The action instantly sparks fury in Theon, sets his teeth on edge.

“Should I come back another time?” Theon snaps, can’t keep the hate out of his voice.

If this is how Bolton wants to play it, Theon will walk out.

Bolton’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. He’s hiding his emotions well otherwise, his eyes carefully empty of his thoughts. He’s trying to be indifferent and Theon can see it plain as day. “Shut the door,” Bolton snaps. “And get over here. Now.”

With a vicious glance, Theon grabs the door and hoists it shut with far more effort than necessary. Bolton tightens his lips, trying to fight down a smirk at Theon’s reaction. Myranda looks pissed, saying, “Why are you letting him stay? Can’t he wait? Sir?”

The Dungeon Master plunges the needle into her and she gasps loudly, body twitching. Bolton replies, “Greyjoy doesn’t wait very well. And…he and I have some _catching up to do_.”

“He annoys me, Sir,” Myranda says, glowering at Theon now.

Bolton slaps her thigh hard, hitting the needles there. She screams loudly, lustily. Bolton sneers, “And you’re getting on my nerves. Besides, I’ve come up with a new game. He’s brought me some…inspiration.”

 _Inspiration?_ Theon thinks darkly. _I’d rather give you a piece of my mind. Or a punch to the throat._

Theon swallows harshly, not knowing what to expect. He’d wanted to speak to Bolton alone, certainly not with this bitch here.

Bolton smiles winningly now, sucking down the negative energy in the room with glee. “It’s your lucky day, Myranda. I guess you’re going to get cock after all.”

She’s glaring at Theon, but her facial expression quickly disappears into confusion. Myranda looks over her shoulder at Bolton slightly, asking, “Sir?”

He clasps his hands behind his back, a nasty grin on his face as he ignores her, looking only at Theon. “Greyjoy. It appears you’ve decided to _grace me with your presence_ at the most opportune moment. This painslut is particularly eager for dick. Always has been. Be a good boy and undo your belt. And unzip.” His grin gets darker as Theon pales considerably. “Don’t give me that look, just fucking do as I say.”

Theon stares at him in horror, confused. His eyes drift over to Myranda’s and sees utter revulsion in her blue eyes, her face twisted as she stares at Theon. They hate each other. They _loathe_ each other. He can’t mean for them to…

Ramsay emits a sharp bark of a laugh. “Don’t look so traumatized. You’d really be doing her a favor. Look at it that way if you must,” The Dungeon Master says, ugliness in his gaze. “But she’s going to suck your cock either way.” He turns his gaze on Myranda, threatening, “And he’s going to like it. Understand?”

“Ramsay,” she says, pleading, “Don’t make me, I don’t want him, I want y-”

“Do I care what you want?” Ramsay asks darkly, eyes narrowing.

With a scoff, he grabs Theon and pulls him over to Myranda, snaps open Theon’s belt and gestures for him to continue with an impatient gesture. It’s then that Theon sees it in his eyes; _this_ is the punishment. Bolton is so fucking mad at Theon that he’s willing to force this on him.

Myranda is just collateral damage.

“She doesn’t need to be part of this, Bolton.” Theon says, tries to halt the turn of events. “If you want to hurt me, don’t involve her in it.”

“What a gentleman you are,” Bolton drawls, studying Theon’s face. “But I reject your offer. She came here for pain and punishment. You; humiliation and fucking drama with me. Do the deed, Greyjoy. This is non-negotiable. You want to talk with me later, fine, but prove to me you still know how to follow orders. Prove to me that you can still submit to me, because I haven’t seen much in that department where you’re concerned, as of late.”

Oh, it’s a filthy, disgusting test of control. Hoops and obstacles to pass. There will be no simple gratification here, no end to this argument until Theon gets to the end of this race. Bolton won’t make this easy, he wants to drag them down into even more misery before this is all through.

With a disgusted look at the other man, Theon unzips his jeans and pulls out his cock, can’t bear to look at the woman who is going to suck him off, apparently. She may want cock, but it isn’t Theon’s that she’s after, that much is for certain.

Ramsay sneers at Theon and lifts one of his eyebrows. “Looks like our friend is shy. Get him going, Myranda. And do _not_ hurt him. I’ll break your fucking teeth if you hurt him.”

Despite it all, Bolton is still protective, but Theon would rather they didn’t need to play this twisted game of control at all.

_This is what you came for, isn’t? His games? The humiliation he gives you? The control that he takes away?_

A sick expression crosses Myranda’s face and the look she gives Theon has him terrified that she’s just going to bite his dick off anyway and be done with it. He’s never had a woman hate him so much. He wishes he could tell her that he has no desire for this to happen, doesn’t want her mouth near his dick any more than she wants to suck it.

“What’s the problem here, Myranda? Suck, don’t stare at it,” Ramsay says sardonically. “I know, he’s impressive, but don’t give him a bigger ego than he already has.”

She’s shaking with rage, but she wraps her lips around his soft flesh, sucking him down with expert skill that he begrudgingly has to respect. He inhales sharply through his teeth, because Myranda does not half-ass her work, in fact she seems to pour her anger into it.

Against his own disgusted mind, Theon begins to grow hard, stretching her mouth. Her jaw is open wide as she bobs her head, swirling her tongue and sucking hard. All of her movements cause her skin to pull slightly around the needles in her flesh, stimulating her with pain. She moans around his cock, but hate still burns in her eyes.

Theon has never seen someone who enjoys pain so much.

Lips touch Theon’s ear and he shivers. “It’s a ‘welcome home’ present, aren’t you thrilled?” The Dungeon Master is whispering into his skin roughly. “Don’t you like it? This is for you, you disloyal cunt.”

Ah, yes. There it is. Despite how hard he tries to hide it, Bolton is upset and thrown by Theon’s long absence. Theon wants to tell him to fuck off, but he doesn’t, holds his tongue and lets a groan slip out instead, humiliatingly. Bolton’s eye twitches at the sound.

A thought crosses Theon’s mind in that moment as he stands there, letting Myranda touch his flesh while he stands unmoving and unparticipating; perhaps Bolton has taken a page from Theon’s own book. Perhaps this is just as awful for him as it is for Theon, perhaps it’s unbearable for him to watch this, but he suffers through because he wants Theon to hurt.

Minutes pass, Bolton standing beside him, watching him with a cruel gaze as Myranda works him to greater heights. They operate like machines for Bolton, doing as he commands just because it’s what he wants and one doesn’t just say ‘no’ to him. Not even to something so disgusting, so hateful and spiteful. There is always something worse that Bolton can come up with instead. Both Theon and Myranda are well aware.

Theon wants to tell Myranda he’s sorry about all this, he would never do this to a woman who isn’t into him, but he knows that she knows they are both trapped in the same boat. Their will is not their own here. She can hate him for this and that’s fine, he already hates himself. Especially because it feels good and it shouldn’t, but she’s putting her all into it like she’s got something to prove.

Perhaps she does. Perhaps Myranda thinks this act gives her control over Theon. He wouldn’t put it past the conniving, jealous woman.

Finally, Bolton steps around to be behind Myranda, sticking his fingers into her without warning. She groans around Theon’s length in shock, her throat vibrating around his cock deliciously. Theon’s eyes flutter and he tries to bite back the sound in his throat. “The fucking whore is soaked,” Bolton comments offhand, pulling his fingers out. His eyes flicker over to Theon’s crotch fleetingly. “Must be some cock, I imagine.”

He stands there, arms akimbo, glowering at them both. Theon can’t see the outline of Bolton’s cock in his pants, but he imagines the man must be hard. He’s orchestrated this whole miserable scene and truly, everyone feels awful about it. Bolton must be eating that shit up. He holds all the power and his slaves await his command. Nothing could be better for the sadist.

The arousal coursing through Theon puts him in a different state of mind, that hungry state that only wants one thing. It’s hard to stay grounded, to mentally stay out of this whole mess. It’s hard to look at Bolton while arousal runs through Theon’s veins; looking at the other man makes him desperate and it’s not okay.

Face lax, calm almost, Bolton states, “Look at you two, having all the fun.” Those stormy eyes run down the line of Theon’s body briefly. He drags out his next sentence with precise, slow words. “I’m getting envious.”

There’s a crinkle of noise and then the tearing of packaging. A condom. Theon really shouldn’t be shocked when Bolton unzips his own jeans and thrusts inside of Myranda smoothly, bottoming out instantly. He doesn’t even push his pants down, just unzips, tilts his hips and that’s all she wrote.

Theon is shocked, despite it all, finds himself staring at the other man, mouth hanging open slightly. In between the shock, he feels jealous, just wants to suffer through this in peace, doesn’t want Bolton to be involved with it as well.

At the bottom of it, Theon doesn’t want them to share this woman; he wants her _gone_.

Myranda’s eyes flutter, the needles in her body pulling hard at the movements of her flesh. Blood trickles down her pale skin in small drips.

It must sting, Theon imagines. But she seems to enjoy pain, truly enjoy it in a way that Theon does not.

Bolton rolls his hips hard, setting a brutal pace immediately. No pretense of care involved. He treats her like an object for his use and nothing more. When Theon meets his pale gaze over the woman between them, he feels his heart tighten in his chest painfully.

The other man is looking at him with this emotion, like he’s blaming him for this, like he’s silently screaming all sorts of pained things that have been building up for the past few weeks in their separation. Theon wants to look away, but he can’t, he wishes they were alone but this is what they have.

He can count all the colors in that gaze, see the things Bolton would never say aloud written there. Theon wants to tear Bolton apart just as much as he wants to pull him closer and it’s a destructive desire that’s ripping Theon apart inside.

Bolton rolls his hips, examines Theon from under heavy lids, eyes drifting down to Theon’s cock to where it disappears into Myranda’s mouth. Then, his eyes drift back up, agonizingly slow, like he’s memorizing every inch of Theon along the way.

Desire flits through Theon’s body, but this time it isn’t from the physical stimulation, but rather the emotional response he has to Ramsay studying his body with a ravenous gaze. It hurts; Theon hasn’t seen him in so long and he wants the ache in his chest to be soothed. He wants the hole in his chest to be filled.

He wants Bolton to _fix_ this fucking mess they’ve found themselves in.

It’s insanity; whenever Theon has tried to internally examine how he feels about Bolton, the idea of being together…in that way…has always been a tad bit uninteresting to Theon. For the longest time it was that way. Men have never aroused Theon. He’s never wanted to touch another man’s dick, never wanted to be one with another man.

Objectively, he’s been able to acknowledge an attractive man, but he’s never _wanted_ one.

He’s never wanted the things that he finds himself wanting right now with a searing agony. Theon wonders how and when this snuck up on him. Was it during the cock and ball torture? During their small moments out eating or getting coffee, those small grins with dimples? How did this man take Theon Greyjoy and twist him all up inside?

He needs and needs, the gaping pit in his stomach screaming incoherently for what it wants and what it wants terrifies Theon. At this moment in time, he’s not strong enough to say no.

Unable to keep his hands to himself any longer, Theon reaches out and grabs Bolton behind his neck with one hand, pulling them closer. Theon’s panting, shaking and Bolton looks shocked, eyes going wide with surprise. He had not expected this, clearly.

“What are you doing?” Bolton chokes the words out, his breath touching Theon’s lips with every syllable. His eyes are a storm, a gale that Theon can almost feel. Bolton’s hips stop moving, his mind and body now completely focused on Theon.

Theon’s absolutely mad, completely lost his mind. He shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t be here letting some woman suck him off- a woman who despises him, while his counterpart fucks her. Theon is lost, always has been, so he may as well go down this this depraved ship. He pulls Bolton’s head forward and closes the last, small distance between them. He covers Bolton’s lips with his own in a desperate kiss, gasping into it weakly.

He hasn’t touched Bolton in weeks and Theon’s missed the heat of him, the smell of his cologne, cinnamon and forest. The sight of that smirk that flays him bare. Theon can’t believe he’s doing this, can’t believe how consumed he feels with his mouth against Bolton’s.

It’s like drowning in flame and the monster inside of him screams with joy.

Theon’s tongue and lips delve against the other man’s lips, soft nips and licks alternating. Bolton doesn’t respond out of momentary shock, mouth slack. Bolton’s trembling, eyes wide and staring deeply into Theon’s. Theon growls against his lips, “I’m giving you what you want, obviously. _Sir_.”

Bolton makes a strangled noise at Theon’s words. Then, his hands come up to grasp Theon’s face tightly, hips rolling slightly, a sure sign of arousal at Theon’s words. Ramsay pulls back a bit so that he can look in Theon’s eyes. Ramsay’s pupils are wide and hungry, his grey irises eaten by the black. “Gagging for it,” he admits with a loud groan against Theon’s lips as he crashes them together.

Theon’s cock swells in Myranda’s mouth, surprised at how much want is in Bolton’s words. Where Theon had initiated the kiss, Ramsay has now taken control of it, tongue stroking against his in a wet slide that has Theon shivering. He feels like he’s dying in flames, being burned alive with want and need. Time slows and all that matters are the lips against his.

He gasps, trembles, his hands not sure where to go, how to touch the other man. Theon’s never felt this way before, never so desperate to please another person and make them want him just as much as he wants them.

In this moment, it feels like an elephant has been lifted off of Theon’s chest, like all is okay again. It feels like forgiveness, but he knows there’s so much more that needs to be hashed out, things that can’t be fixed with a kiss.

But. Theon is willing to forget all the hurt between them for this moment, because Bolton feels too good with his strong hands on Theon and his teeth sinking into his lips. Theon makes a soft noise in his throat, desire building, heating him up; he’s sure his cheeks are flushed. He wants to sink into the ground and take Bolton with him.

It’s almost too much. Theon’s chest is going to explode, he feels like he can’t breathe, he needs air. He can’t get enough; he wants Bolton more than air and Theon _shouldn’t_. He tries to pull away, but Ramsay holds him still, talking into Theon’s mouth. “Is she making that monster of yours feel good? Your thick piece of fuckstick?” His voice is thick, syrupy and his tongue is delving into Theon’s mouth again hungrily, like he can’t get enough.

Bolton licks into his mouth, like a cat, making a low sound in his throat as he does so. Theon’s cock throbs and he wishes Bolton’s mouth was on him instead.

It’s pure heat, a slide of flesh against flesh, the lurid sounds of wet squelching noises in the room. Theon lets the other man dominate the kiss, his body on fire, his groin singing with sharp, potent desire. “You’re making it feel good,” Theon rasps back, shaking, he’s fucking shaking.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ramsay snarls under his breath, eyes fluttering shut at Theon’s words.

 _I’ve missed you; I’ve missed being here with you,_ Theon thinks with an ache in his chest. _I missed you just as much as I hated you._ _How fucked up is that?_

Ramsay’s hips snap hard into Myranda’s ass as he plows into her from behind. It must be painful, the thrusts so hard that her face is slammed into Theon’s pubic bone repeatedly. Her throat is convulsing around his cock and briefly Theon fears she might not be able to breathe. Then he asks himself if he really cares at all and disturbingly finds that he doesn’t.

He's too far gone in the depravity of it all.

Ash eyes are dark with lust and blown pupils and Theon just can’t look away. He’s never ever wanted to see another man fuck like this, but right now he doesn’t even care, feels like this is something he and Bolton are sharing, like Myranda is just part of the scenery.

She doesn’t even matter. Not anymore.

It’s the closest he and Bolton can be without actually fucking each other and that barrier somehow helps Theon not feel quite as horrified.

Ramsay’s running his mouth again, all while pressing Theon’s face to his neck. “I’m going to cum and I want your teeth in me when I do it. _Bite me_.”

Theon sinks his teeth in hard, his tongue flat against Ramsay’s flesh, laving it as he bites, mouth wide against his skin.

“ _Harder, Theon_ ,” The Dungeon Master snarls, pressing his neck up into Theon’s teeth. Theon locks his jaw harder, sure that his teeth must be bruising Ramsay’s light skin.

Ramsay groans loudly, his hips losing all sense of rhythm. Myranda cries out around Theon’s cock, possibly orgasming as well from the sheer force of Ramsay’s fucking, the pain tipping her over.

When Ramsay pulls out, the condom that covers his cock glistens wetly. He tosses it in the garbage haphazardly and walks around towards Theon, who is unsure if he should still keep letting Myranda work his cock, he hasn’t come yet. He’s suddenly unsure of what to do and his cock is aching with need, balls sore and tight. 

A bruise is already forming on Bolton’s neck, Theon’s mark can’t be missed. He feels a rush of pleasure, seeing that there, marring that perfect pale skin. Knowing he put it there, knowing Ramsay _wanted_ it there.

He watches the other man carefully, feeling Myranda’s hateful eyes on his face. She pauses in her work, jaw most likely sore. Theon doesn’t move, hasn’t moved his hips at all since he started. As if that proves he never wanted this in the first place.

Ramsay comes to stand beside Theon, lips close to his ear, staring down at Myranda. “Did I tell you to stop?”

The tone is soft, deadly. Like a snake in the grass.

With a disgusted, pained look, Myranda sets back to her task and Theon tries to not take pleasure in her skilled mouth. But he’s only human and she’s good at what she does.

“You’re rather tame,” Ramsay comments to Theon softly, a hidden razorblade. He’s noticed the lack of hip movement on Theon’s part. “Are you not having a good time? I thought you liked whores like this.”

“She doesn’t want me and I don’t want her,” Theon replies through clenched teeth. “But you already knew that.”

A wicked grin pulls at Bolton’s lips at Theon’s words, icy eyes mocking. Of course he knew.

“I’m well aware that you two shits dislike each other. I want you to fuck her goddamn face like you want to kill her,” Bolton says finally, cruelty entering his tone.

Theon doesn’t like Myranda, but he doesn’t want to hurt her.

Bolton snorts. “This really shouldn’t be so difficult. She likes being demeaned and hurt. You seem to think she doesn’t enjoy this, just because it hurts your sensibilities. She _likes it_ , Greyjoy. Give her what she wants. Now.”

With a disgusted feeling, Theon does as he is told, feeling powerful, angry, and violent as he does so. Hating himself and his weakness, his traitorous body and desires. Though her jaw must be aching, Myranda takes what he gives her, drool dripping from her lips and chin, stretched painfully around his girth. Bolton is whispering disgusting, violent things in Theon’s ear, his hand splayed possessively on Theon’s belly. “Come on, I know you need it, daddy wants you to feel good too, love the way you look when you cum,” he finally whispers, filth in Theon’s ear and in his stomach.

With a cry, Theon finally falls off the edge, releases, feels like he’s been waiting forever to climax this hard. He nearly sags with relief that it’s over; this hideous act is complete.

Myranda instantly pulls away from him, fury on her face as she looks at Theon. He wants to tell her to fuck off with her disgusted look, because it isn’t like he wanted her to suck him off. He could have lived his whole life happily without ever touching her. No one is safe from Bolton and his demands.

He doesn’t understand why she doesn’t lay the blame where it belongs; with Ramsay.

“Took you long enough, pretty boy,” she snaps as she rubs her jaw. “You ought to be more considerate, you’re fucking hung!”

That’s what she’s mad about? _Good grief_.

Without preamble, she sits up on the table and begins yanking the needles out of her flesh. There are many, but her fingers move with furious intent. She’s bleeding small streams of blood, but she doesn’t seem to care an ounce about the pain. She places the needles in a biohazard bin for disposal before turning an expectant look to Ramsay.

With shaking hands, Theon starts to zips up his jeans, buckling his belt again. Feels gross, now that he’s not aroused. It’s always terribly funny how desire can change how your mind operates. That must be why shame is so potent in the aftermath.  

Theon stands there, panting, anxious. Feels lost. He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have come to this hell hole. It was all a mistake. He feels distinctly unclean, feels disgusted with himself. Now that arousal has been drained from his veins, he’s left feeling foolish. He’d walked into Ramsay’s play with Myranda after all, maybe Theon has been replaced already…

His face falls and he tries to hide how uncomfortable he feels. He’s been an idiot, he fucking kissed Bolton in the heat of the moment, he shouldn’t have done that, Bolton is probably disgusted with him now. People say and do stupid shit during sex. Theon rubs his eyes and inhales sharply, tries to force his emotions back into his chest. Keeps his fingers pressed into his eyes.

Myranda shoulders by him, hitting him with her body defiantly as she makes her way to Ramsay. As she approaches him, Ramsay says, “Get out, Myranda. You have work to do upstairs.” Ramsay doesn’t look at her, fiddles with his phone instead, pants zipped up in perfect order.

Flat. Cold. His disinterest couldn’t be clearer and Theon almost feels bad for the girl…almost but not quite. He watches in shock, uncovers his face. What is going on here?

The emotion on Myranda’s face is raw, terrible to behold. She stares Ramsay down, despite the fact that he gives her not a single glance. “You’re…you’re throwing me out? What _is_ so fucking special about him? Huh? Do you actually think he’ll still want you, once he knows who you are? He won’t. Not like I do.” Her voice is threatening, accusing. Pained.

Ramsay’s square jaw clenches hard at her words and his eyes flash with murderous intent as his head snaps to her direction. “If you value your worthless life, you will _get out now._ ”

“He left you! How can you pick him? He’ll never stay with-”

“Myranda. I know you like pain, but so help me, I’ll find something so awful that you won’t think of pain the same again,” Ramsay says with a blank expression, made more horrifying by the homicidal look in his eyes.

She turns her jealous gaze on Theon and her lips are quivering. She’s trying not to cry. “Why did you have to come back? _Why_?”

“Don’t talk to him.” Bolton’s voice is deadly calm.

The woman swallows visibly, pales slightly at those words. Myranda doesn’t continue arguing. With a destroyed look, she pulls her clothes on and quickly vacates the room without a backward glance. Theon is sure he sees tears starting to form in her eyes. He should have never come here. This is all his fault; he should have known that Bolton would come up with a new way to hurt him. To punish Theon for leaving him.

Without another word, Ramsay goes to his couch and sits down on it, arms spread in a relaxed manner on the back of the couch. The tension is thick, the air in the room suddenly evaporating. They’re alone now, for the first time in weeks and for once, Theon doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know what can be said to express all the fucking wrongness between them.

He’s giving Theon a lazy look. Everything that just happened is heavy between them and Theon can almost taste it. Taste the sex in the air, sick and twisted. Theon doesn’t know where they stand now, definitely had not intended…for what happened to happen.

This is not how he had imagined this meeting going.

Bolton raises his eyebrows expectantly and drawls, “So. What are you doing here? Thought you needed _space._ ”

Ah. So not all is forgiven _yet_. He’s not past the sting of Theon’s absence. Well, fuck that; Theon isn’t past Bolton’s lies or blatant disregard.

Theon scowls, blood rushing to his cheeks. “I got fucking tired of waiting for you to force me to come back.”

Bolton frowns, lip nearly lifting. Nose wrinkled with irritation. “Are you a moron? I did ask you to come back. Multiple times.”

“Yeah. I wanted you to ask again.” Insolence; Theon always wore it well.

Scoffing, Ramsay makes an exasperated gesture with both hands. “How many fucking times am I supposed to ask? How many times does the great Theon Greyjoy require? Care to tell me?”

When he says it like that, it all sounds rather silly. Theon looks away with embarrassment. “Whatever. I got tired of waiting for you and your lack of apology. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

The Dungeon Master smirks wryly, shaking his head. “Always impatient. You can’t help it, you’re like a fucking eager dog.”

“Fuck y-”

“That’s what I like about you. You want to please me. All these other bitches want to take and take. But not you.”

“So, she’s been playing her hand at getting you, yeah?” Theon tries to not be jealous. He’s the one still in this room, not Myranda.

But. Bolton had fucked her and Theon…doesn’t like that.

“She has.” Bolton says simply. “Especially while you’ve been… _getting your space_.”

Theon feels a sinking pit in his stomach, feels his throat tighten.

“But I don’t want her as mine,” Ramsay says, watching the expression on Theon’s face carefully.

“Why wouldn’t you? She clearly is crazy about you. And I…I left you...” The word ‘again’ hangs in the air, unspoken, but certainly heard.

Bolton stares at him with careful intensity. “She’s a masochist.”

“I don’t understand…isn’t…isn’t that what you would want?” They’re both painfully aware of the fact that Theon does not get off on pain. Theon fears this is undesirable to the other man.

“Her enjoyment of pain doesn’t fulfill my needs. When I work with you, everything is suffering and pain and you don’t love it. You love looking to me to save you from the very pain I give you…I’m your tormenter and hero all rolled into one.”

Choosing his words carefully, Theon asks, “What about when you can’t save me from yourself? When you can’t stop? When you lose control? You realize, if I can’t control you, I have to rely on you to control yourself. And that’s terrifying, because I don’t think you want stop.”

Inhaling slowly, chest moving with the action, Bolton exhales loudly. He looks pained, like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say. “I see now that…perhaps I crossed a line. And scared you. And misled you. And…I got out of hand a bit.”

Theon nearly rolls his eyes; that’s putting what happened lightly.

“But that _is_ how am I. I’ve never made you any promises,” Ramsay continues carefully.

Scoffing, Theon paces around the room, anxious. “Yeah, well maybe you fucking should, but I’m not sure what your word is worth.”

“It’s worth whatever I want it to be.” Which probably changes with the breeze.

“You’re impossible. You’re literally impossible!” Theon doesn’t know why he thought this would turn out any differently.

Sensing Theon’s fury building again, Bolton sighs, sinking further into the cushions. “For what it’s worth, I meant it when I said I wanted you with me. On the phone. I always want you with me. Even though I’m not…good at respecting boundaries.”

The words send Theon reeling, not at all what he had been expecting from the other man. No matter how reluctant Bolton had seemed to say it, the words were probably as close to honestly as Theon would get out him. As close as he would ever get to some form of apology.

It isn’t good enough, but it’s something for now. It’s an olive branch to soothe the vengeful part of Theon.

“I’m…I hope I didn’t freak you out with what I did tonight. I got carried away in the moment,” Theon says, feels like he needs to justify the desperate kiss while they’re being blunt with each other. “It isn’t bothering you, is it? That I kissed you?”

He’s not…he’s not gay. Neither is Bolton.

Ramsay frowns slightly. “Are you apologizing?”

Theon shrugs, looks around the room, embarrassed. “I mean, you don’t want me that way. You’ve always made that clear.”

Silence. A painful pause in conversation. A silence akin to nails on a chalkboard, searing in its absence of conversation to fill the void. Then-

“Come here,” Ramsay rasps, crooking one of his fingers. When Theon steps closer to him and the couch, Ramsay spreads his legs wide, waits for Theon to stand between them. “What part of me fucking gagging for it like a slutty cunt didn’t you understand?”

Theon stares and stares, the words swirling in his brain. He flushes. “Oh…I…what?”

Bolton gives him a self-depreciating, crooked grin. “You don’t believe me? Come here. I’ll _show_ you.”

Theon’s heart is racing madly, feels like it’s up in his throat. Feels like he’s going to choke on his own emotions. This was never supposed to happen. They were never supposed to become this. They were never meant to come this far.

_Once you take this final step, you can never go back. There are no takebacks here._

Taking a deep breath, Theon looks down at Ramsay and sees the hunger reflected in his eyes. Theon never meant to feel this way for another man and now he’s lost and scared. He doesn’t know how this works. He doesn’t know what to _do_. His fears and anxiety over this line rise up inside of him again.

Ramsay is watching his hesitation with lowered lids, a lazy look of satisfaction, a look of someone who is sure they are going to get what they want. “Are you going to make me ask again?”

“I’m terrified,” Theon whispers immediately, staring down into those dilated pupils, those eyes that hold a thousand unanswered mysteries and terrors.

With a low voice that makes Theon think of bedsheets and darkness, Ramsay utters, “That’s alright.”

A tortured sound tears from Theon’s throat as he places his knees on either side of Ramsay’s hips, kneeling on the couch, hands on Ramsay’s shoulders, hovering above him. Ramsay’s hands curl around Theon’s hips, jerking him down into his lap. He’s staring up at Theon, gaze raw and open.

Theon can’t stop the heat that rises in his face. His mind races and defaults to thinking about what he would do with a woman.

With that more familiar train of thought, Theon presses Ramsay down into the couch lengthwise, crawls on top of him, hand tangled in that black hair. He looks down at Ramsay, shaking even though he is the one in the position of power. Ramsay’s eyes are ravenous as he lays back into the cushions, letting Theon press him down.

He's _letting_ Theon hold him down. Seems impossible, an idea so maddening. Theon has never felt terror and desire mix so entirely before. He can’t bear the idea of making one wrong movement, a movement that will piss off the more dominant man, despite his current relaxed demeanor.

“Tell me what to do,” Theon whispers, panic filling him, feels like he’s on the edge of destruction. He needs Ramsay to take control, needs to let him take the wheel from Theon.

A sloppy grin shapes Ramsay’s lips, knowing. “Shove your tongue down my throat, you imbecile.”

A command, a direction for Theon to take. Emboldened, he does exactly that. Theon shoves his tongue into Ramsay’s mouth, tries to crawl down his throat, moans desperately. With a soft sound, Ramsay’s mouth opens wider, his tongue going lax to allow Theon access deeper within. The very act sends a thrill through Theon, nearly makes him fill his own pants just feeling this horrifyingly controlling man give him agency of his body.

It feels so submissive, yet Theon knows who holds all the power. It certainly isn’t Theon.

Theon pulls back slightly, just to get some air, panting hard. Ramsay bites at his lips, murmuring, “Is that all, baby? I want you to choke me with it.”

“Oh, God.” Theon can’t take it. He dips his tongue back in and Ramsay sucks on it, causing Theon to whine low in his throat.

He spreads Ramsay’s legs wider and settles between them. Theon presses down with a shiver, wanting the other man to feel his stiff length, hot and heavy in his jeans. He grinds down, rolls his hips back and forth in a slow drag. He scans Ramsay’s face, feels like he’s pinning a tiger down with his cock. Unpredictable and capable of severe violence.

There is an aura of fear to it all; knowing this man can change his mind in a single breath, decide he doesn’t want Theon humping him into the couch cushions. A shaky groan slips out of Theon’s mouth and he flushes, feels the way Ramsay arches up against him at the sound.

 _He seems alright with this,_ Theon thinks with no small amount of wonder, his mind hazy with desire, disbelief. _But shit, I can’t tell if this is amusing him or if he’s savoring it so he can punish me for it later._

Somehow, it’s so different from being with a woman. With women, Theon always has the upper hand, has reason to feel arrogant, has an ego. He has _experience_. This is foreign territory and he feels lost, doesn’t feel strong enough to lead here.

Theon does not have the power here, despite the other man being the one beneath him.

In a moment of inspiration, Theon grabs one of Ramsay’s thighs and hikes it up around Theon’s hip, giving him a filthier angle to grind against. A more exposed angle, Theon’s cock drooling in his jeans.

With a sigh, Ramsay lets him maneuver his body, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans his head back against the arm rest, exposing his neck. A hint of his sharp teeth shows through the hungry sneer that adorns his lips.

A fallen angel, lost in his lust.

Theon figures it’s best that he can’t see the look in Ramsay’s eyes, because that mouth makes him want to die.

He feels like he’s flown too close to the sun, body on fire, sweat dripping down his spine. Ramsay uses his leg to trap Theon’s groin tight against his. Theon’s gasping for air, runs his tongue down that marked throat. That throat that has Theon’s claim on it.

Ramsay shifts his clothed cock against Theon slightly, commanding, “Go on then; rub against me like a panting bitch. Like I know you want to. I bet your fucking monster cock is wet, like a cunt.” He leans closer to Theon’s ear, whispering, “Are you wet for me, princess?”

He’s soaked his underwear already and he’s sure that a wet spot is already forming on his jeans. Theon’s leaking like a faucet and Ramsay’s dirty mouth doesn’t fucking help anything. Theon snaps his hips and enjoys the sound of Ramsay’s satisfied chuckle, which quickly turns into a thirsty moan as Theon rides against him hard.

 _That oughta shut you up,_ Theon thinks with a grin as he bites Ramsay’s neck again, sucking hard. _Your princess has a dick that could turn you inside out._

The only sound going forward is their harsh breathing, almost in tandem. Their hips grind together and Theon wishes they had no clothes between them. But. It feels so damn good like this and he wants it so bad that he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care. He’d happily hump against Ramsay until his dick bled.

He’s so close. Theon is going to actually come in his pants. He should be embarrassed, but he’s too far gone to care. His body starts to tense, stiffen, he’s right there. Theon thinks about how Ramsay had looked wearing Theon’s seed that one night and desperately wants to cover him in it again. He moans into Ramsay’s neck at the image in his head.

“Show me how bad you need it, show me how greedy you are for my cock,” Ramsay says lowly against the skin of Theon’s throat, recognizing the signs. “I want you to cum for me. Just for me.”

The command registers in Theon’s lust filled mind and the reaction is instantaneous.

With a weak cry, Theon comes in his jeans, feels the wet heat fill his clothing. Ramsay purrs and grinds his hips up against Theon languorously, like he wants to feel Theon’s cock pulse against his. Like he wishes there were no clothes between them as well.

“Filthy girl,” Bolton says hoarsely, tongues Theon’s ear lazily.

Theon shivers, feels his cock spurt again at those words.

A haze of pleasure sits around Theon, filling his stomach with pleasant warmth, the gentle ache to go again, because he wants the man under him so bad. Shifting slightly, Theon places his hand on the bulge in Ramsay’s pants, feels the hard heat of him. It’s so foreign, touching another cock. “What about…? Can we…should we?”

Ramsay shakes his head and Theon is ridiculously disappointed. “Tomorrow night. I want you to come to my place.”

“Why not tonight?” Theon tries to not sound like he’s hungry for it. The way he feels, he’d probably be fine jacking them both off together.

It’s then that Theon sees those dangerous hands, capable of anything, gripping the sides of couch tightly with a white knuckled grip. Ramsay sighs. “Because I don’t think I can control myself tonight. I’d hurt you.”

Theon is confused, but stares at the clench of those hands. “You always hurt me. What’s new?”

The look in Bolton’s eyes is like a murder scene; blood and gore playing out across his irises. “Because I want to fuck you until you die and I don’t want to break you when you’ve just come back to me.”

The words on anyone’s else’s lips might have been arousing, but Theon knows that Bolton isn’t joking. There’s a certain aspect of fear that comes with knowing someone wants to possess you so completely, wants you entirely. Without restraint.

And is capable of violence. And revels in it.

“Okay,” Theon replies, sitting back, putting some space between them. Needs air, he needs air, needs some distance between them to cool his head. “I get it.”

He doesn’t quite get it, but he suddenly feels like prey again and knows he shouldn’t press the matter.

Ramsay lets him move away, still keeping himself plastered to the couch on his back, as if it makes him look like less of a threat. Restraining himself. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. At seven.”

Theon nods his understanding. “Should I just meet you at your place? I don’t want to make you drive me back super late, you live pretty far out.”

Bolton closes his eyes and inhales slowly, nose flaring with contained arousal. Barely under control. “Well, you’ll be staying in my bed, so you won’t be leaving.”

As Theon looks down at Ramsay, he sees the hunter in his gaze, the bloodlust mixed with desire. He can never forget, not for one instant, how dangerous this man is. He can’t make that mistake again.

Even if Theon wants to be his hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Well, I hope I didn't traumatize anyone with this, but you can probably see now why I made this a separate part D:
> 
> Next chapter will probably come next weekend instead of on Friday, just due to this being a two for one this weekend and I've been very focused on The Hunter & The Hound all week. Oh and chapter 15 distracted me too, darnit. I need to put extra work into chapter 14, because it must be handled with care. EXTREME CARE.
> 
> Sidebar conversation: I got the #37 Ramsay Bolton Funko Pop and he is precious. I won a bidding war on ebay while being sloshed on tequila in a bar. He came in the mail yesterday and he is an ANGEL! He sits on my desk by me while I write. Too bad Theon doesn't come out until October. Guess Ramster will be lonely until then.
> 
> All of your comments and kudos are wonderful, I eat them for breakfast. THANK YOU ALL!! <3


	14. Strappado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. 
> 
> **AN:** Sorry for the Saturday update, but I was held down by 3 days of a wicked migraine and then hosting a party on Friday. Sort of screwed with my week, but here you go XD This is straight up raunchy...sorry. I may have gotten carried away. This chapter is straight up explicit sexual content, but per my usual style I am going to throw a scary curveball at you first in the beginning. SORRY!!!!!
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING:** If you are made uncomfortable by **ANY MENTION of noncon** , please run away from the first half of this chapter. While it isn't what you expect, there is a scene in this chapter that may be VERY disturbing to some in its initial impression.
> 
> I repeat...it **IS NOT** what you think it is. I promise. If you find yourself getting upset and anxious, hang in there. I just don’t want to spoil things for you. Believe me...it's worth it. Take a deep breath, prepare for the worst, but just know that it isn't what it seems.

**_************_ **

**_************_**

_Your prayers are poison_  
_Your pleasure's pain_  
_You worship your god in a different way_    
_Your tongue is silver_  
_And your heart is black_  
_You've got your claws sunk deep in my back_

_Scars – William Control_

****************

****************

Theon stares at himself in the mirror and cannot connect the dots of his life. Water drips down his face from where he has splashed himself to cool his mind. He feels like the whole world has shifted under him and nothing is the same, nothing is what it used to be.

He replays everything that happened earlier tonight, from Myranda all the way to losing his damn mind and kissing Ramsay Bolton like it was the most normal thing he could have chosen to do. _What was I thinking?_ He thinks as he dries his face off with a towel. _Now I can’t get him out of my head._

 _You never stop thinking of him anyway, so what’s the difference now?_ Theon’s inner self has always been made of attitude. _You're afraid of a kiss? Or the fact that you admit that you want him for something more?_

Before, when he’d been leaving the club, Ramsay had pulled him aside after walking him back upstairs. They’d been outside and Ramsay had yanked him roughly into the dark alley around the corner, pressing him up against the brick.

The red glare from the _Dreadfort_ sign glowed ominously in the night, a crimson fog in darkness.

Ramsay had pinned him there, keeping Theon in place with his hips. His eyes were black pits and the only expression there was animal hunger. Almost like Ramsay were no longer human. “Remember,” Ramsay had said with a confidence that Theon admired objectively, “You’ll be mine tomorrow.”

Theon had only nodded his head, unable to keep himself from pushing his hips against Ramsay’s again. He could feel the other man’s hardon and simply could not understand why they just couldn’t…try something tonight. Anything, really. Theon couldn’t be sure that he was ready for…well…everything, considering he hadn’t come to terms with very possibly taking it up the ass.

Even after all that had happened earlier, he still had a large suspicion that no matter how harmless Bolton could play himself off as, the man intended to be the one on top when it mattered. Theon wasn’t entirely sure that the thought filled him with excitement.

More like a healthy dose of anxiety. Does this make him a virgin again? Oh, God. It does!

“Tell me you understand. Whatever happens tomorrow, just remember you are mine and I’d never let anyone else have you,” Ramsay had said insistently, leaning back to grab Theon’s crotch roughly. Possessively. 

There’s something ominous in those words. Even now, looking at himself in the mirror, Theon finds himself picking through that conversation over and over, trying to understand what was being said under the hood. If he knew anything about Ramsay, it was that the man was saying _something else_ , other than what the words simply sounded like.

“’Whatever happens tomorrow’, pfft. What the hell was he getting at?” Theon mutters to himself before swilling some mouthwash and spitting it out. “We both know what is going down tomorrow anyway.”

_Then why did it sound like a warning? A threat?_

_Because, you can never forget the most important thing about him; he’s a sadist._

_And everything can be made into a game for him._

That night, Theon can barely sleep, lying there alone in his bed.

When he does fall into slumber, his mind provides him with a dream of Bolton lying under him with the eyes of a monster that is sucking Theon’s soul in.

* * *

 

* * *

The next day is spent being antsy.

He texts Bolton to be sure on the time, hoping that perhaps he can pick him up earlier, but Ramsay remains firm on seven pm. Theon tries watching tv, tries writing a few new songs, but ends up getting utterly distracted all over again.

 _Is this how some chicks feel on prom night?_ Theon thinks scathingly at himself. _They pace around all morning thinking about how their precious boyfriend is going to do the deed to them in the back of some car after the dance?_

“Ugh, what am I, a bitch?” Theon says aloud, flipping the tv off with exasperation.

He showers, then empties the different garbage cans in his apartment, traipsing down the apartment building to throw them out in the dumpster. He goes out the front and makes a sharp left to go around the side where the dumpsters are and heaves the bags in.

Theon cracks his neck, ponders where he should go to get lunch. He’s starving and only ate cereal earlier. He’s got a lot of time to kill before later and he’s not going to spend it all pacing around his house.

Just as he is about to turn and head back around to the front where the cars are usually parked, he hears the scrape of a shoe on the cement. He thinks nothing of it, as people often go around the side to throw away garbage on Saturday.

It’s the dark van that’s parked just-so that suddenly raises the hair on his neck.

Out of nowhere, a cloth is shoved over his nose and mouth with suffocating force. Theon inhales reflexively to yell, but only chokes on the strange chemical scent in the cloth. _Oh shit. Oh shit, this isn’t happening._

Another arm wraps around his waist like an iron bar and yanks him backwards as he struggles, tries to fight the best he can. _This doesn’t happen to guys like me,_ Theon thinks wildly, mind beginning to fog.

Then again, he realizes that _isn’t exactly_ correct. He’s somewhat of a minor celebrity. There are plenty of crazy fans out there, people who hate him, people who think he’s the second coming. Any psycho could decide to kidnap him. Any psycho.

He fights and jerks against the person who has grabbed him, jabs his elbow backwards, but Theon’s body is weakening. Stars are beginning to drift across his vision and darkness is clouding his mind. His muscles go lax and he sags against the body behind him, the one who keeps the horrible cloth shoved over his nose.

All he remembers before everything goes black is the smell of copper and being loaded into the truck with no windows. _I knew that car looked like a rapist van. Just my luck,_ he thinks as he goes under completely.

* * *

 

* * *

When Theon wakes, he feels groggy and lost. Cold. So very cold. He comes around slowly, tries to blink so that he can see, but his vision is so blurry. It’s dark, the light is so dim. He can faintly see the outline of white tile beneath his feet.

He’s looking at the ground, because he’s standing with his legs…spread. Why is he standing? How is he standing? With a groan of misery, he tries to close his legs, but cannot. Panic whirls through him as he tries to force his legs together, tries to move, but his struggling only causes him to cry out in pain as his shoulders give an unusual, sharp pulling sensation.

His only clothing on is his underwear he realizes with vague horror, struggling in dismay.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” an unfamiliar voice says. Low, raspy and muffled.

Theon has to strain to lift his head up, because the position he’s in has him bent forward completely, his center of gravity thrown into his chest over open space. He distantly realizes that his arms are up behind him, wrists in metal cuffs, pulled tight. Even his elbows are bound together with rope. The place between his shoulder blades aches viciously.

There’s a metal bar keeping his legs apart, cuffs around his ankles. A spreader bar. With a snarl, Theon hisses, “What the fuck do you want, asshole? An autograph for your girlfriend that I probably fucked once? Or twice? Fucking sorry about that.” He's not sorry. 

He sounds more confident than he feels, but Theon is good at wearing different masks to hide who he is. To hide how he feels inside, too afraid to let others see him for what he really is. Theon tries to see where his enemy is, but the room is dim and his eyes have not yet adjusted. It vaguely smells of cleaning solution, wherever he is being kept.

There is a brief, horrible silence.

Then, Theon is hit hard from the left, a sharp punch to his gut that makes him gasp, spitting saliva onto the ground. “You cocksucker,” Theon snaps to the darkness around him, trying to not vomit on the floor.

Out of the darkness, something materializes beside Theon, as if melting out of nothingness. Like a monster in a horror movie. A scream dies in Theon’s throat as he tries to jolt away without much success. A horrible mask fills his vision. It’s some sort of Call of Duty ghost mask, a black mask with dark holes for eyes and a ghastly skull for the entire face. Hideous, aggressive, and promising violence. Theon whines low in his throat, tries to move away.

He can’t see the eyes in the darkness, just black holes, pits where a human should be.

There’s a mirror that Theon can faintly make out, across from where he is strung up. In the dim lighting, he can see a dark outline of his captor standing beside him. Black boots, black pants, black leather gloves, and a black bulky hoodie. Ready for crime and violence, intimidating. Someone who is familiar with what they are doing.

“This position you’re in…they call it strappado. It's used as a form of torture in some places in the world. Sometimes, torture victims are hung off the ground from their arms…which dislocates their shoulders rather quickly, if you can imagine,” a dark chuckle, distorted by the mask. “But I want both your feet on the floor for what we are going to do. The spreader bar is to keep your legs apart. Can you guess why?”

“I don’t…I don’t fucking know, asshole,” Theon snarls, shaking with fear. His teeth chatter and he wonders when shock will settle in.

The monster wraps a gloved hand in Theon’s hair and jerks his head back, causing Theon to cry out in discomfort. The space between his shoulders burns and prickles. “You’re a big talker, aren’t you? We’ll see how big your mouth is when I open up that virgin pussy of yours.”

A zing of horror races through Theon at the same time that a strange sort of arousal slams into him. The terror and the humiliation of it all, the helplessness…he hates his fucked-up body. All his wires, they are totally messed up. “You sick freak! Don’t fucking touch me. I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Those are tough words for a man tied up,” the monster hisses in that low rasp. The sound of a knife being snapped open nearly causes Theon to black out in fear, wondering if he’s going to be stabbed first, then raped. The monster uses it to cut his boxers off, leaving him completely exposed.

Suddenly, it all becomes very, very real. This pig really is going to do it. Theon had figured this to be a guy that was pissed off about Theon ruining his relationship or some shit with a groupie, cuz yeah, that’s happened before…but this is something else.

This isn’t a guy he’s wronged and this isn’t a crazed fan.

“Oh, fuck. _No_. Don’t do this, please _don’t_. What do you want? I’ll give you anything if you just let me go,” Theon cries out, tries to not hurt his arms with his struggles.

His eyes begin to water and the monster chuckles in amusement.

“You sick fuck,” Theon says, voice cracking. He feels like dying, feels like tearing his own brain out of his skull and stepping on it, just so he doesn't have to be here mentally when...when it happens.

His whole body is shaking, trembling in terror. Adrenaline is spiking through him at the same time, all his neurons firing different commands in his body. Terror makes his mind lost, but the adrenaline of it all excites his traitorous body and his cock begins to fill slightly. A purely physical reaction that he cannot tame.

The mask comes into his line of vision again, the skull grinning hideously in the dim lighting. “Look at that,” the low growl sneers, “You’re not so innocent after all. Maybe you want that ass turned open.”

Heated humiliation slides through him at those words and he nearly vomits at the reaction his body has. Theon isn't normal, his body can't possibly act this way, not in this sort of situation, but it's almost as if this man knows the right buttons to push. It's almost like _he knows_ what a sick animal Theon is, but how is that possible?

“Look, what do you want? Did I do something to you? Just let me go, I’ve never even seen your face, you can still set me loose,” Theon begs desperately, trying anything to get set free. “Why are you doing this?”

A gloved hand grabs his balls hard, squeezing them and Theon cries out, wants that hand off of him. “You think there’s a reason? I just like watching bitches like you cry. That’s all, really.”

The hand lets go and the monster walks away, disappearing for a few moments, blending into the darkness of the dim room. His black clothing hides him well and sweat runs down Theon’s face, mixing in with his tears.

This can’t be happening, how did something like this happen to him?

Without warning, two hands come to rest on his rear and Theon jerks in the restraints. He can’t step forward, can’t hobble forward, the spreader bar making him clumsy. He’s exposed and can’t get away; this monster can do whatever he wants to him.

Disgusting, filthy arousal coils in his belly at the thought, the fact that he has no power. It’s been taken completely and despite the terror in his mind, his body's strange reactions will not be turned off. The sudden pulling pain in his shoulders warns him off of struggling too hard once more, a brief sensation of pulling too far, of a teddy bear having its arms ripped off. The image pounds through his mind and Theon stills, shaking.

“Good boy,” that voice rumbles, a hint of familiarity there as Theon shakes under him. “Just take what I give you.”

Then, the first leather gloved finger enters Theon, oiled up based on the smooth slide in. “Oh, _shit_ , no,” Theon gasps, letting his head hang again in shame as it washes over him.

And, simple as that, someone else is playing with his body from within. Defeat has never tasted so awful. Shame is bitter on the back of his tongue, potent and vile.

The first intrusion doesn’t bring any discomfort, but the second finger joining it does, a stinging pain as Theon’s body tries to accommodate the entry.

Those fingers are sure, possessive. They drill into Theon with confidence, in and out. Searching, touching his tender insides. Another hand rests on his hip, giving his captor leverage. Theon gasps brokenly, trying to keep down a sob of humiliation. It doesn’t exactly hurt and he doesn’t have time to dwell on why this monster isn’t hurting him with this.

He doesn’t dwell on why his captor would bother with opening him up at all.

The two gloved fingers search deep, a nice slow drill with every firm push. Theon feels his entrance begin to relax into it, the push and pull never changing in speed, the rhythm staying the same. When there is no longer a burn at all, a third finger joins the other two. The stretch is tighter and Theon feels tears drip off his face onto the floor.

The beast doesn’t change pace, just slowly searches and presses until Theon’s legs begin to feel weak.

“You’re opening up nicely, greedy little slut,” the mask says roughly, though not as raspy as earlier.

In fact, if Theon concentrates on the voice, it might actually sound familiar.

He can’t tell how long they go on like this. His shoulders burn and blood is rushing to his head and to his cock. The fingers deep in his ass have found places that shame him, that make his cock drool and bounce up against his belly. It shouldn’t feel good, _but it does_.

Theon’s insides are softening to the touch, his traitorous body welcoming and opening under the careful ministrations. Then, the monster finds the place inside of him that makes him cry out in horrified pleasure. It feels like fireworks are going off in his belly, makes him feel like he can finally take a piss after holding it desperately for 5 hours, feels like so much ecstasy and he whines in shame.

His hips press back the best they can, but the position of his shoulders does not allow for much without the threat of dislocation.

“There we go,” the mask says with a distorted edge. “You like that, don’t you? You sick, nasty boy. Wanting some man, any man, to shove their fingers up your needy cunt.”

“Don’t do this,” Theon begs, hysteria entering his voice. “Don’t make me…”

The strong fingers inside of him press hard against his prostate repeatedly, massaging it. “Don’t lie,” the monster chuckles, “You want to. You want to show me how pretty you are, crying and cumming for me.”

Theon’s breath heaves and he squeezes his eyes shut, blaming his body for the situation it has found itself in. He tries to think of anything else, tries to think of things that will shut him down, but nothing works. The physicality of it feels too good and the terror and degradation of the situation are making him shake with a terrible mix of need and fear.

 _Maybe this is why my father never liked me, maybe he always knew what a monster I am inside,_ Theon finds himself thinking as his balls begin to tighten.

He’s never orgasmed without his dick being in something and the fact that these fingers in him are slamming him over the edge is mortifying. With one more hard press, those fingers drill against his pleasure spot, deep within and he gasps loudly. His vision sparks.

Unbelievably, he orgasms with a desperate, humiliated cry.

“Beautiful,” the muffled, thick voice utters, a leather gloved hand settling on the small of his back while the other remains fucking into Theon. “I love watching you cum.”

In that moment, something inside of Theon connects. Click together. A lightbulb goes on. He knows the cadence of that voice, under that stupid fake rasp. Those words that belong on someone else’s lips. Fear drains out of his body instantly and he _knows_.

“Bolton, take off that mother _fucking_ mask, you complete dick!” Theon tries to sound tough, but half of it just comes out ridiculously weak. He sounds like a pissed off kitten instead.

He's furious, absolutely fucking furious. It's so infuriating that Theon almost laughs, it's so fucking typical of Bolton. He should have known. All the horror and grandstanding, all part of Ramsay's calling card. Anger and want war with each other inside of Theon now; anger at being fake abducted and want because despite it all, his stupid fucking body still desires the other man.

Theon lifts his head with effort and glares at the full mirror across from him, stares at the masked monster standing behind him with their fingers up in him still. He’s starting to understand why the man is wearing a baggy hoodie in early summer weather; to mask his form, one that is most likely familiar to Theon under that getup.

The man shifts his shoulders and tilts his head in a familiar way at Theon’s words. “Clever boy,” the monster says with a fond tone, low rasp now gone.

Theon watches in the mirror as the beast in human form lifts his free hand to his face and rolls up the bottom half of the skull mask, exposing his bestial grin. Theon nearly sags; he knows that grin in his sleep. “How long were you going to let me think you were someone else?”

The grin gets wider, sadistic. “As long as it took.”

That sick bastard probably loved every minute of it, watching Theon beg and cry in terror. It makes sense though, a sadist wanting a new way to twist what they had planned on doing tonight. It sickens Theon, pisses him off, but the worst part of it is that he enjoyed it. A terrorhound to the very end, in love with the way humiliation brings him low, like an animal subject to baser desires. With a groan, Theon lets his head fall forward again. “I hate you. I _really_ hate you.”

Bolton steps away, sliding his fingers out of Theon. With a wince, Theon finds himself feeling strange, open. Exposed to a terrifying man. He feels infinitely safer knowing that he actually _knows_ who he is with, knows who has fake kidnapped him, but a different sort of fear overtakes him now.

While he may want Bolton, the man is completely unpredictable, his sadism always wanting more.

“Would you have fucked me, even if I hadn’t figured out it was you?” Theon asks as he hears a tearing of a wrapper. A condom. Theon shivers; fuck it’s going to happen. Even after all of this; just another game. Ramsay is really going to take him, despite all of this. Theon can barely breathe, feels his body shaking madly with nerves.

He's going to die if Bolton fucks him while he's shaking like a damn virgin girl; he's also going to die if he _doesn't and that's far worse_.

The gloved hand returns to Theon hips as Bolton takes his place behind him once more. Theon can see Bolton’s revealed lips twisted in the mirror; those skull mask eyes tilted to look down at Theon’s rear. “Of course. Know why?”

An ill feeling rolls around in Theon’s belly, just hearing confirmation that Ramsay would have continued, even if Theon had never figured out it was him. “Why? Why would you do that to me?”

The heated head of his cock presses against Theon’s entrance and they both inhale sharply. Bolton is gripping his hips hard, gloved fingers pressing in deep. “Because, you’re mine and no mask will ever change that.”

He plunges in and Theon feels the air leave his lungs. While his body is loose and prepared, sated from his first orgasm, Ramsay is still thicker than three fingers. Theon is thankful that he doesn’t just shove all the way in; he pushes in firmly, but not roughly, groaning.

The feeling of becoming one, of having someone else inside of him...it's maddening. Filling. Heavy, unlike anything Theon can describe. His body accepts and cradles Ramsay's flesh into his own and Theon feels ridiculously vulnerable. Even more vulnerable that when he had first awoken in this awful room. He's also ashamed, because now it's official and there is no going back; they've fucked. He and Ramsay have officially done the deed together and that makes them something more than what they once were.

Theon just isn't sure what it means though.

The stretch makes Theon feel full, packed to the brim. He feels like he’s hyperventilating, breathing hard through the discomfort that he feels. “Calm down, breathe slower,” Bolton says firmly, “It’s okay, you can take me.”

Theon bears down a bit, tries to focus on something else, instead finds himself focusing on the shape of the cock inside of him, the weight of it, the heat of it. Knowing it belongs to someone else gives him a strange sense of wonder, despite the fact that it is slightly uncomfortable. He’s happy Bolton warmed him up though, despite the fact that Theon had not known it was Bolton while he was working him open, fucking him on his fingers until Theon came humiliatingly.

Finally, he can feel Ramsay’s balls resting against his own when he’s fully seated inside of Theon, pressed in deep. The other man is breathing hard, restraint in the tension of his arms and hands. Theon appreciates it.

Bolton groans lowly, shifting his hips slightly. He doesn’t thrust, just keeps himself seated deeply, slightly grinds his hips against Theon’s ass, cock working him open on the inside. “You’re still so tight on me. Fucking squeezing my dick.”

They stay like that for a few more short moments, Theon’s body slowly softening to the intrusion. Eventually, the soft tilts of Bolton’s hips start sending jolts of pleasure down Theon’s spine, nicking his prostate with gentle nudges.

A hand wraps around Theon’s semi-hardon, stroking it carefully. Arousal coils again, builds inside of Theon, the pain in his shoulders becoming an afterthought. “Could you take those idiotic gloves off?”

“Nope.”

Theon groans as Ramsay rolls his hips slowly, experimentally. He can feel everything, the slow movements inside of him precise. He imagines, if he were to be fucked hard, he wouldn’t be able to feel much of anything aside from the penetration itself. This way, his flesh is slowly teased on the inside, his prostate getting a gentle taste of sensation. Neediness is an open mouth inside of him.

Bolton bends forward and runs his tongue down the line of Theon’s spine, his teeth occasionally clipping Theon’s skin. “I could eat you,” he drawls, “you tasty piece of fuckmeat.”

Then, he slaps one of Theon’s rear cheeks roughly, causing him to tighten around the cock inside of him. They both gasp in tandem at the feel of Theon’s insides fluttering around the hot girth filling him. His body shudders with pleasure as Ramsay shifts his angle again, pointing his cock directly into Theon’s pleasure spot. “Right there…” Theon whispers, embarrassed, feels like a fucking girl.

Whenever he fucks girls they always start making those breathy noises when he’s found a spot they like inside, or a good angle. He’s doing that. He’s doing that right now and it's pretty fucking embarrassing to be on the receiving end of that desire.

Ramsay misses nothing and snorts derisively. He bounces his hips a few times gently into the same angle and Theon groans deliriously, tightening his ass around the other man, drawing a hiss from him. The sound of the lube gives off this wet, squelching noise and Bolton moans, jerking his hips a little more obviously to make the filthy sound consistent with his movements.

The cock in him is so precise and the way his hips are being lifted by the hands on him, the angle of each slight movement…well…it feels unbelievable. Theon lifts his head the best he can to look in the wall mirror across from him, to see the man fucking him.

Theon’s cock is drooling again, sliding easily in Bolton’s gloved hand, the sounds wet and needy. He tries to push back onto Bolton harder, but the other man stills him. “Stop trying to make me fuck you hard. I’m trying to not dislocate your shoulders, Theon,” Ramsay says huskily, voice thick and aroused. “Unless, you want me to?”

Another slow thrust, stroking his hot insides with need. Theon shakes his head slightly, breathing out, “ah…no…thanks…just…do whatever you’re…doing…but more.”

The other man laughs sharply, more of a bitten of bark. “Impatient whore.”

God, Theon might be drooling. His ass has relaxed into the slow, sure fucking. In fact, he isn’t even sure it’s fucking, it’s more like when girls ask to make love or some sappy sweet, slow shit. And Theon finds himself freaking loving it, loves feeling every bit of Bolton in him, careful and sure, restrained and hungry all at once.

Theon feels overheated and needs more, he’s so close to the edge. He hangs his head in exasperation, his neck aching from holding it up. “Are you going to take care of me now, _daddy_? My shoulders fucking hurt, slow or not.”

The cock inside of him twitches at his words and Theon gasps at the sensation; he can feel that movement inside of him! It’s so foreign, having someone else in your body, so intimate. He can feel everything about Bolton, everything that makes him weak when it comes to Theon.

And, that’s power.

The other man licks his exposed lips, a reflection in the mirror. The upper half of his face is still covered by that dreadful mask and somehow that adds to Theon’s arousal now. In fact, Theon thinks he’s going to want Bolton to fuck him with that mask on again sometime in the future, a remembrance of his false abduction. A reminder of how he tied Theon up and fucked him with his fingers while Theon begged him not to, desperate and scared.

Theon’s cock bounces at the thought, sticking straight out from his body, hard and aching. He’s so ready to burst.

Bolton grabs Theon’s bound wrists and gently, oh so gently pulls back slightly. Theon grits his teeth in agony and hisses, his upper back on fire. Pins and needles in his arms. “Have you been a good little girl, do you think?” Ramsay asks in a strange tone, like he’s trying to hide how aroused he is.

 _Good luck pal, I can feel your dick in me. Can’t hide that hard rod,_ Theon thinks with sarcastic amusement.

Something inside of Theon grows, swells. His confidence. The terror he felt before has long since been melted away. He knows how terribly Bolton wants him. He also knows that this whole crazy abduction charade has fed the monster in Bolton, the one who eats terror, misery and pain for breakfast.

The worst part of it all is that Theon liked it. He enjoyed the humiliation and the terror. But now…

“I’ve been so good for you,” he whispers lowly, lets his voice get husky.

He doesn’t need to lift his head to look at the mirror to know that Ramsay’s lips have most likely twisted into a dark sneer. He can almost taste it in Ramsay’s words as he rasps, “You are such a hot little fuck. You were made for my cock.”

Bolton leans forward to sink his teeth into the flesh of Theon’s middle back hard, so hard that Theon wonders if he’s going to bleed. The mask makes it look like a monster is tearing into him. Theon kind of likes that, it makes Bolton seem so aggressive, violent. Like, a really bad man. _Oh, come off it, you already know he’s a bad man,_ Theon thinks, nearly rolling his eyes at himself, letting the pain of those sharp teeth digging into him wash over him.

Theon moans, shifts his hips the best he can, wants to feel more, wants to be fucked like he deserves.

“You naughty girl.” Ramsay moans, grunting as he jerks his hips hard. “You make me want to be so good to you. Does my baby want me to softly fuck her gash with my cock?”

Theon shudders, his cock jumping up against his stomach, leaking like a hose. He nods his head wordlessly, his prostate swollen and aching inside of him.

“Answer me,” Ramsay snaps, grinding against Theon hard, using both hands to spread his cheeks wide to his intrusion.

“Oh, fuck yes, _you shit_ ,” Theon breathes out, panting for air. “You know I do.”

A hand wraps around Theon’s thick cock again and Theon sighs into it, so desperate for the edge to come. “Does your big, hungry dick want to unload on my floor?” Bolton hisses lowly, thumbing Theon’s leaking slit. “This monster cock of yours, so hungry, wanting me to fuck you so hard that you can feel me in your belly.”

He begins to slide his hips back, thrusting in with controlled precision. Ramsay wants to fuck him so bad, to hump him like a wild dog, Theon can feel it in the grip on his hips. But, Bolton knows he can’t fuck with abandon without wrecking Theon’s arms and Theon grins in dark amusement.

“Your cunt is so puffy around my dick. So greedy for my meat. _Fuck_ ,” Bolton curses, voice sharp like a razorblade.

He’s losing it and Theon is loving every second of it, loves listening to him come undone. _And, that’s power,_ echoes in his head again.

“I’m gonna take this condom off. I want to fuck my cum up into you and fill you up. Mark you inside.”

A moment of worry flashes inside of Theon. “Obviously, I’m clean-”

Ramsay thrusts hard and Theon winces at the pull in his upper back. The other man starts talking in that gross sweet tone of his when he’s being particularly nasty. “Of course you are, I’m the first to open you up, sweetie. Took your sweet fucking cherry.”

Oh, Theon _hates_ him. Hates how those patronizing words make his ass tighten and his dick bounce, drooling.

“Yeah, I am. But you-”

The cock inside of him disappears, leaving Theon to feel empty and he hates his body for feeling so thirsty for that thickness inside of him. He tries to follow with his hips, flushing in humiliation.

The shackles around Theon’s wrists come undone, along with the wrapping keeping his elbows together. Ramsay helps him down to the floor. Theon’s shoulders scream in relief, stiff and sore from being held in that terrible, precarious position. As he lies on the floor panting, Bolton removes the spreader bar from his ankles. No longer restrained in any way.

“I don’t fuck sluts without a condom,” Ramsay hisses from behind him, strong hands suddenly coming to Theon’s shoulders, roughly massaging them as Theon lays on his stomach on the cool tile. “But you need my cum and I want to fill you. I’m going to cum in you all night long. My cumslut.”

And then, without warning, something hot and wet slides between Theon’s cheeks, rubs, marks him with sticky wetness. Ramsay humps against him like this for a few short moments, condom-less, covering Theon in the scent of his cock and balls.

Then, before Theon can even inhale again, the bulbous head is sliding into him, past his sensitive rim. They both cry out in unison, Theon shaking at the feeling of being filled with no barriers between them. He groans into the crook of his elbow, to hide his face. It’s too much, too intimate.

If he thought Ramsay’s cock was hot before, it’s a scalding heat inside of him now, pure flesh against flesh. “I’m going to fuck you now,” Ramsay says thickly, “You’ll be feeling me in you for weeks when I’m done.”

He sits on his knees and pulls Theon to his lap, bouncing him up and down on his length quickly. It’s fast and dirty, Theon feels like an animal, like a whore being mounted by a beast in rut and Ramsay snarls and grunts behind him, head thrown back.

The room is full of the sound of their rough coupling, the slap of skin on skin, heavy breathing. Eventually, Ramsay gets Theon onto his hands and knees, despite the pain of being on the tile. It’s an afterthought, both wildly chasing their orgasms.

The cock inside of Theon slams into his prostate repeatedly in this position and he has no choice left but to let go. He comes with a loud shout, his cock spurting all over the floor, balls tight against his body, pushing his release out hard.

His ass tightens around Bolton and the other man moans filthily, shooting inside of Theon, filling him with his release. Theon’s body gives out and he sags onto his belly, in the mess he’s made. He’s too fucking tired and doesn’t even care, just panting like he’s been running for miles.

Finally, _finally,_ Bolton takes off the mask fully as he lies down beside Theon on the floor, his chest rising and falling hard. When he turns his face to look at Theon, there’s an expression there that Theon cannot hope to decipher. In spite of everything, Ramsay is still a mystery.

Even after having Ramsay inside of his body, even after being connected so completely, Theon still does not know him.

He's always just beyond reach, this cold ghost with a wicked grin. 

* * *

 

* * *

They eventually leave what turns out to be the basement of Ramsay’s home (when they catch their breath), some absolutely creepy unfinished expanse below the Dreadfort. The room they end up exiting has quite a few locks on it, a fact that Theon finds quite ominous, but he doesn’t ask.

He’s too focused on the ache he feels as he walks, the way Ramsay’s cum is leaking out of him, dripping into his jeans as they sneak their way upstairs to Ramsay’s room.

Bolton’s room is a familiar space and Theon throws himself down on the gigantic bed. His body is so tired and achy, not to mention the dull pain he feels where Ramsay has had him. He flushes and tries to not think of that, of how he responded so eagerly to the other man, even when he hadn’t _known_ it was Ramsay.

Which is the worst part of it all, actually; he'd cum even before Ramsay had revealed himself. Theon doesn't know how to feel, to be honest. He should be enraged, he should be running for the hills. And yet, despite how terrible the idea of it all is, Ramsay didn't hurt him, was actually ridiculously gentle with him. Theon wonders if perhaps things would have been different, if they had just straight gone at it; would Bolton have been more hurtful? Needing to see Theon in pain? Would he have torn him open if they had tried to do this the normal way?

In this situation, the fear and terror had aroused the other man and he had not needed to harm Theon; his inner monster had been sated with the faux kidnapping, with Theon's humiliation and imprisonment. 

The other man is stripping off his clothes, throwing the dark black pants and hoodie into a hamper. The dark mask sits alone on his desk. Theon gestures towards it. “You’re suspiciously good at all that,” Theon comments, more as a joke than anything.

Ramsay is stretching, his muscles shifting under his skin. “At what, fucking? I’ve had some practice.”

Of course that’s what he thinks Theon is referring to. “Pretty sure I’ve had far more practice than you, but-”

“Doubtful. I’m older than you by a few years.”

“Oh, fuck off, I literally have women throwing themselves at me left and right, doesn’t matter how old you are. I’m talking about abduction. I’m talking about you nabbing me in broad daylight. That wasn’t…okay you know.”

Ramsay’s body stiffens subtly and he half shifts his head like he’s going to look at Theon over his shoulder, but then doesn’t. The muscles in his back flex under his skin. “Oh, that. Hn.”

Not an answer. Back to his silent game it seems, the one where he pretends Theon doesn’t have the right to know him at all. “That’s all you have to say?”

Finally, Ramsay turns around and slowly stalks over to Theon. He climbs onto the bed and pushes Theon backwards until his back hits the sheets. Ramsay grabs his wrists and pins them down, saying in that low, growling voice, the one he’d used as he’d played at raping Theon as a stranger. “Do you really want to hear my answer?”

Theon gazes up into those eyes, falls into them, realizes that he actually doesn’t want to hear the truth. He scared of what he will find and it seems that Ramsay is well aware. “Yes, I do.”

The other man gives him an ugly smile, tight and mirthless. His hands tighten on Theon’s wrists until Theon winces, feeling his bones creaking under pressure. “I don’t like it when you lie.”

“I don’t like it when you lie to me either, see how that works?”

“I rarely lie to you; I just don’t tell you anything that you don’t need to know,” Ramsay snaps, grabbing Theon’s hair roughly, moving his head back hard to expose his neck.

Theon submissively allows his throat to be bared, somewhat eager for those teeth to sink into his flesh. He’s almost disappointed when they don’t. “Tell me you can see there’s a problem with that. With what you just said. With what you did today.”

Ramsay sits up with a huff, staring down at Theon with dark eyes. “I’m not obligated to tell you everything about myself. You know who you’re dealing with. Just. Drop. It.”

They remain there, breathing heavily for a few moments, irritation staining their faces. Theon looks away and removes his shirt, stripping his jeans off as well. He has no underwear; those were cut in the basement. He doesn’t meet Ramsay’s eyes again, though he knows the other man is gazing at his body as he slides under the sheets.

Theon tries to ignore the liquid still seeping out of him, Ramsay’s claim on his body from the inside.

Ramsay sighs into the room and gets up to go shut off the lights. When he joins Theon in bed, he crawls in on the far side. They keep a distance between themselves, both staring up at the ceiling angrily. This isn’t exactly how Theon imagined this day would go.

Or how it would end.

He wants closeness, or some form of understanding. He just…gave something of himself. Or it was taken, Theon isn’t completely sure of the technicalities anymore. The whole situation is just a hazy mess of bad ethics and loose morals. 

Story of his life.

What is there to say, when you've just done something you never thought you would ever do? He's not even sure that he'll be able to meet Bolton's gaze in the light of day, so ashamed of what they've done in the dark. The twisted things they did together, Bolton's sadism pulling out the worst in Theon, bringing his darker needs to the forefront of everything.

And already here they are, fighting like two tomcats again just after sating their urges on each other. Theon sighs with frustration. 

He can’t do it. He can’t sleep like this, not with the source of his frustration radiating furious heat on the other side of the bed. Theon can’t go to bed pissed off and angry. He can’t sleep with tension in the air this thick. He tries to diffuse it. “Hey.”

“Mhm?”

“Next time you want to abduct me and rape me, can you like, maybe give me some more advanced notice? Like, ‘hey man, I might grab you and throw you in the back of a truck tomorrow afternoon, might not, who knows’. Something offhand like that.”

The bed shifts as the other man moves closer to Theon. Ramsay throws his leg over him possessively and sits up on his elbow, looking down at Theon. The corner of his lip is quirked up now. “Sure, I’ll book it on your calendar next time.”

“Oh, fuck you very much.”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll fuck you there next.”

“I’m shaking. Ramsay fucking Bolton might stick his _scary_ dick in my mouth.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Good luck,” Theon mutters, snuggling into his pillow, inhaling the familiar scent there.

Then, he frowns, the scent making him wonder something. He sits up and scowls down at Ramsay as the other man lies there with his arm thrown over his eyes. “Hey,” Theon prods. “Hey dickhead! Did you, wear a different cologne today? Do you have the ‘disguise’ skill level of ten or some shit, like a fucking RPG?”

Those white teeth flash in the dark, though Ramsay doesn’t move his arm off his eyes. “I showered with different soap this morning. Took a friend’s cologne and sprayed the clothes and mask that I wore. Knew that would throw you off. Couldn’t give the game away with something stupid like that.”

Theon shakes his head, mouth lax. “You are _fucking scary_.”

“Thanks, peach. I’m glad you appreciate my efforts to keep things exciting. Now, go the fuck to sleep. You’ve worn me out; you have no idea what sort of planning that took last night.”

Theon tries to not think of that as he drifts asleep.

* * *

 

* * *

Theon wakes up, sometime early in the dark of morning, to an orgasm. It’s a shock, slowly waking up and feeling the joyous screams of relief rip through his body in a chorus that has him shaking.

With sleepy satisfaction, he feels Bolton spooning him from behind, groin pressed tight to Theon’s ass, buried deep inside of him. His leg is perched on top of Ramsay’s hip as he slowly drills into Theon with agonizing strokes of his cock.

“Morning,” Ramsay sighs into his ear as he bounces his hips a little, causing Theon’s eyes to roll in his head.

Theon is in no state of mind to speak, his cock still achingly hard despite his release. He lazily rolls onto his stomach and Ramsay follows, laying down on Theon’s back, humping into him slowly. The movement rubs Theon’s cock into the wet sheets, providing excellent friction.

Panting, Theon digs his fingers into the sheets and moans. It’s too much, too much sensation for just waking up. His belly aches with want and something inside of him is wailing for release again. He’s fucking sore as hell, but it doesn’t matter, he just wants. He arches his back, tries to take Ramsay deeper, but the other man pulls out suddenly.

Theon grunts with pain and irritation, his sensitive entrance most likely inflamed. His cock still throbs despite that. “Leaving me hanging here?”

“Tell me what you want.” Stern, cruel. Too cruel for this early in the morning.

“I’m not telling you crap,” Theon snarks, reaching his hand around to start handling his own erection.

He only gets a few strokes in before Ramsay grabs his wrist and stops him. “Stop. You can’t touch yourself. Only I can make you cum.”

“Uh, that’s a lie-”

“Those are the fucking rules, Greyjoy,” Ramsay snaps, grappling with Theon’s arm a bit as Theon struggles.

Theon enjoys giving him a hard time.

Finally, Ramsay has both of his wrists pinned and now Theon can only rub himself against the sheets, which is slightly too humiliating, even for him. Ramsay growls in his ear, “Do you want to cum again? Want to mark my sheets up?”

“You know I do,” Theon moans with exasperation, tries to alleviate the ache in his belly.

Teeth tear into his shoulder and Theon cries out weakly in pain. “Then tell me what it is your needy cunt wants,” Ramsay growls.

Aroused, horny, tired, Theon hisses, “I want you to hold me down, you fucking asshat. Hold me down until I can’t breathe and fuck me until I cum in your stupid sheets.”

Almost instantly, Ramsay slams Theon’s face into the bed and holds him there, hand splayed on the back of Theon’s head. He humps between Theon’s cheeks briefly before his tip catches at Theon’s rim. “You’re so puffy here,” Ramsay says nastily, using his free hand to rub his cockhead against Theon’s sore entrance. “So wet and needy for cock.”

Theon wants to tell him to quit talking and start fucking, but a single thrust nearly takes the air out of his lungs. He gasps into the sheets as Ramsay’s heated flesh slides in, making him feel full in a way that he never has.

He’s sore from their activity hours before, but despite the discomfort it feels good. Ramsay keeps him pressed down and begins to thrust in long strokes, reaching around with his free hand to pump Theon’s cock in time with his hips.

As Theon loses air, he begins to struggle, feels panic fill his chest. His groans are muffled and he feels faint as he pushes back against Ramsay, tries to get his face out of the bed so he can breathe, but Ramsay is too strong and holds him down; true to what Theon asked him for. Theon likes the fight, enjoys the struggle because he knows Ramsay will eventually let him up.

But not a moment too soon.

Pleasure zings up and down Theon’s spine and he feels faint as he loses oxygen, feels control slipping away. His cock throbs with need, loves being held down and being treated like a submissive little bitch.

Ramsay is panting in his ear, grunting like an animal as he rolls his hips harder and faster into Theon. “My cum is still in you from earlier,” he snarls into Theon’s skin, “You’re so sloppy. Filled with me. You’re made to take my load… _fuck_.”

His balls slap into Theon’s ass as he slams in one more time, pressing into Theon so hard that he sees stars even with his eyes shut. Just the feeling of that cock spurting in him, the hand on his dick, the loss of air that is now too much, it all collides together and drops Theon off the edge. His cock begins to pulse in Ramsay’s hand and Ramsay flips him over onto his back.

Air spills into Theon’s lungs as he shoots sloppy white streaks onto Ramsay’s belly. Ramsay’s chest is heaving wildly, his trim stomach moving with his rough inhales. He’s holding Theon’s cock against him, aiming Theon's release onto himself. It’s wildly hot, for some reason, and Theon feels his face heat as he watches his cum marking his dominant counterpart.

Ramsay leans down and runs his tongue over Theon’s mouth, lapping at his lips lazily. Theon hums sleepily, lets Ramsay do whatever it is he wants. Theon is too out of it to care. Ramsay scoops up Theon’s cum and strokes it all over his own dick. Theon doesn’t even have time to ask what he’s up to before Ramsay shifts them again, spooning Theon once more.

He slides his cock back into Theon despite the fact that it's clearly beginning to soften. Theon winces with pain, sore from use, but Bolton just strokes his belly soothingly, practically purring in his ear. He doesn’t thrust, just leaves it there, his flesh inside of Theon. Possessive, controlling.

“Does it feel good? Having a cock in you?” Bolton asks wonderingly, no hint of nastiness in his tone for once.

Theon’s instant thought is to snap, _does my fist feel good in your face?_ But he refrains, bites the reflex back. It's his automatic response, because he's ashamed of how it makes him feel. If someone had told him that he would be taking it up the ass three months ago, he would have laid them out flat. Now, it just seems like a natural progression with Bolton, just one more part of their strange entanglement. Giving Theon pleasure and taking it away is just another means of control for Ramsay.

The question, Theon realizes, is legitimate. Ramsay genuinely wants to know, which Theon understands. This is both their first time having sex with another man...it's like a whole new world for them. “Your cock does feel good, yeah. I mean, you use it pretty good.”

“Tell me more.” There's a smug air to that tone.

“Pervert,” Theon mutters sleepily, tired from his multiple orgasms. “Stop fishing for compliments. You don’t just jack hammer it in, you search around, grind, roll your hips. It’s nice. You have a ridiculous amount of patience.”

Ramsay snorts behind him, a puff of air on Theon’s nape. He reaches around and touches Theon’s cock gently, examining it. Theon tries to not get hard, he’s tired anyway. Some blood starts rushing back into his appendage, but he remains mostly limp, thankfully.

He’s so fucking tired of orgasming, to be honest. His balls are beginning to ache from use.

“What are you thinking about?” Theon asks as he closes his eyes, relaxes into his pillow. The hand on his cock is still gently exploring his width, the vein on the underside.

“Nothing,” Ramsay replies quickly.

“Well,” Theon says tiredly, “It’s yours, you know. You can do what you want with it.”

“Anything, huh?” An amused air to the question.

 _Not the best thing to say to a sadist, Theon_. “Well, not anything!”

A hard bite on his shoulder, hard enough to make Theon grunt in discomfort. “Just checking.”

“Can you take that out? I’m sore dude,” Theon mutters, trying to shift away from Ramsay’s cock.

Snorting, the other man removes himself from the confines of Theon’s body. “Poor baby.”

Theon growls low in his throat. “I haven't taken dick in my ass my whole life and you think you can take up residence all night? Get with the program, Bolton.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Ramsay says with no heat, just a calm statement. “You know I like how you scream.”

Theon rolls his eyes and then shuts them, snuggling into the bed with exhaustion. Bolton stretches out somewhere behind him, thankfully not up against his back. Theon’s had enough of him for one hot minute. Having some personal space is a good thing at this point and Theon wants to sleep. Sleep until the sun shows up.

Soon, the sound of Ramsay’s breathing deepens, signaling that he's drifted off, satisfied.

Though Bolton had scared the crap out of him earlier, kidnapped him and pretended to rape him, Theon is _okay_. It was the right amount of terror, a thrill that made him hard against his will. The kind of humiliation and degradation that made him ache.

He likes being held down; he enjoys having to fight. It’s a sick method of control, giving himself a _lack of control_. Because, this is Theon’s _choice_ , no one else’s. That day on his brother’s boat had robbed Theon of any control, had spun him in darkness where he lost everything even when he tried his best to hold on.

It probably isn’t healthy. Hell, it isn’t healthy at all, actually. Despite this, Theon cannot hide from the fact that what he wants is twisted up inside himself, but Bolton could be the key to making the screams in his head fade away.

Eventually, Theon falls back into sleep as well, lulled into slumber by the sound of the crickets outside and Ramsay’s slow and steady breathing. The morning is still young and the sun has not yet risen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Well, I hope you loved it and I hope it wasn't too balls out horrifying. I have that effect, sometimes. That was a bit of a beast to write XD
> 
> Thank you for all of your kudos and comments so far! I love each and every one of them, even if I don't always get around to answering them all!!! <3 They bring me smiles :D
> 
> Someone was very naughty in this....  
>   
>  


	15. Breakfast at the Bolton's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon gets to experience a typical morning in the Bolton household.
> 
> Among other things, naturally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. They belong to George R. R. Martin.

When dawn finally breaks, Theon wakes to the sound of Ramsay turning off the shower. He seems to be an early riser, always well awake before Theon. He comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, dark hair dripping. “Look at sleeping beauty,” Ramsay remarks with raised eyebrows when he catches Theon looking at him from the sheets. “Rise and shine, princess.”

With a groan, Theon pulls himself out of bed and finds his clothes from the day before. His body is a mess of different aches and pains, his lower half more than a little tender and sore. Ramsay disappears into his walk-in closet, giving Theon the privacy to go into the bathroom and ponder things alone.

Being awake and seeing Ramsay out of bed twists something inside of Theon. He’s nervous, he realizes. Theon doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about what they did together, all the crazy things that had happened the night before. Standing in the bathroom, he tries to figure out if he feels angry, but finds himself empty of the emotion.

Lost is a more accurate term for how he feels, like a balloon drifting through the sky alone.

He sprays himself down with Ramsay’s cologne so he doesn’t need to shower and just washes his face in the sink. The mirror reflects his bright sea-green gaze back at him, skin wet with water. He looks the same, though somehow he feels like a different person. Like something has changed.

Grabbing a towel off the rack, Theon dries his face, tries to not think of the smell of Ramsay’s skin in the material. But he does.

Theon wonders what it all means, wonders if he’s supposed to feel ashamed of himself for what he allowed to happen, outraged about the false abduction, or even secretly thrilled by the fact that he did the infamous Ramsay Bolton and lived to tell the tale.

He had sex with a man and he’s sure that’s just another thing on his father’s list that simply is not what a Greyjoy man would do. It’s another reason for his father to be disgusted with him. Then again, the fact that Theon allows himself to be subjugated by another man anyway would be enough to set his father off.

_ You’re filthy, you’re a disgusting animal, letting yourself be used like you’re worthless. Maybe you are worthless. _

Sighing, he sits on the floor for a moment, trying to straighten his thoughts. The floor is cool, grounds him, brings him into the present. Theon stares at the door and thinks about the person on the other side, wonders how on earth he is supposed to be alright with the fact that he had literally been snatched in broad daylight by the guy he fucked the night before.

Had Theon been hurt? No. Had he been scared shitless? Yes. Did he get turned on like the sick freak he is? Yes, again. If Bolton were to tell him that he would consider grabbing him again a week from now, Theon would say, ‘my body is fucking ready, man’.

Because, he’d want it. He loved that fear, the high from the adrenaline, the loss of control. The humiliation of it all as Ramsay played his masked role with a sharp grin, fingering Theon mercilessly into orgasm. He flushes at the thought, tries to not play it out any further in his head.

The fact of the matter is, Theon would inexplicably enjoy it if Ramsay were to do something like that again, with Theon’s knowledge going forward, as sick and unhealthy as that may be. How can he hold a grudge for something he ended up enjoying? Bolton had played him well enough, like a fine instrument, knowing just what to do to make Theon’s body sing.

A dark part of Theon whispers, _but what else is he capable of, if that is just a taste of what he enjoys? How far is he going to take you and are you strong enough to stay on that ride?_

When he leaves the bathroom again, Theon goes to sit on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do. He’ll wait for Ramsay to take lead, it’s his domain after all. Ramsay’s attitude and actions this morning will set the tone for the relationship going forward…Theon just needs to see where Ramsay’s head is at now.

 _What if he just wanted to see if he could do it, what if he just wanted to see if you would bend over like a bitch and take it from him. Maybe he’ll be sick of you now, now that he’s used you._ Theon pushes that thought away distastefully.

Ramsay comes into view with a shirt slung over his shoulder, sliding a belt into the loops of his jeans as he walks. The muscles in his arms flex slightly with his movements. Theon can’t help the way his eyes drink in the other man, take in his body. The body that gave him so much enjoyment hours earlier. And terror. Theon likes his body, he finds. Has the distracting thought of wanting to run his tongue down that chest, chew on those small nipples that perk up on his pectorals.

When Ramsay pulls the shirt on, Theon pretends he wasn’t looking at all.

It’s strange, to look at a male body and want it the way he’s only ever wanted women. It’s hidden in the lines of that strong form; the way Theon likes being held down by someone far more solid than himself. Of being forced to submit. The heady mix of humiliation and terror, of knowing he’s at someone else’s mercy and that they can choose to harm him or not.

Or, perhaps it’s in the power of knowing that person wants him enough to leave Theon whole after all the carnage.

Ramsay quirks an eyebrow at the look on Theon’s face, snorting as he snaps on a dark watch that Theon hasn’t seen him wear before. Slight highlights of chrome glitter on the dark gunmetal, catching in the light. Ramsay sighs and stares at the timepiece for a moment, an indescribable look on his face. His lips tighten suddenly, eyes remaining elusive and cold.

“I got something for you. After the whole fiasco with the suspension play, a few weeks ago. When I didn’t think you would fuck off on me for nearly a month,” Ramsay says very suddenly, eyes not meeting Theon’s. “It was supposed to be…I don’t know. A fucking gift, I guess. To show I appreciated how well you submitted that night.”

The smile that shapes Theon’s lips is stiff and unpleasant; he doesn’t want to be reminded of the night that he’d been hung on hooks. Clearly, that night had been extremely impactful on both of them…just in different ways. “Aw. Aren’t you fucking sweet?”

Ramsay doesn’t look amused and pulls Theon off the bed sharply, moving him over into a chair, bodily slamming him into it. He smacks the back of Theon’s head hard enough to make Theon wince. “Watch your mouth. Don’t make a big deal of it either.”

He places two boxes in front of Theon; one small, the other larger.

“Are you proposing? That’s a big step for a boy like me, you know,” Theon says teasingly.

Inside, Theon’s a nervous wreck; gifts…for him?

The other man rolls his eyes. “Why do you always say the stupidest shit?”

“Because it drives you nuts.”

Ramsay makes a derisive noise sharply between his teeth, but gestures to the boxes with his hand impatiently. Those hands and those fingers...Theon knows what they feel like when they stroke inside of him. He pushes the thought down.

With an apprehensive look, Theon opens the smaller of the two boxes. He stops breathing as his eyes take in the contents. “Holy…this is too much. What…what the hell?! What am I supposed to say?” Theon pronounces uselessly, searching for the right words as he pulls an expensive looking watch out.

He holds it in his hands carefully, like it might break at any moment. It has a lighter steel color, but with a dark, deep blue face, a small diamond winking at him from where the twelve would be. There are no numbers on the face, just silver hands pointing and a tiny diamond like the north star.

Ridiculously, he thinks of the ocean and can almost taste the salt on his tongue.

This is probably one of the nicest gifts he’s ever received and somehow, it makes him feel a strange ache in his chest, hollow and sad. This is probably nothing to Ramsay, a guy who clearly has everything and more money than he knows what to do with. He couldn’t know that Theon has never received something like this before, always being the one to have to work hard to earn something nice for himself every once in a while.

The money from the band is decent, but Theon isn’t rolling in it. Maybe once they start traveling worldwide, the dough will be better but for now they are pretty locally based and the money is just ‘okay’. Theon is comfortable with how he makes his living.

The watch in Theon’s hand is beautiful and he loves the damn thing. He turns it over in his hand, just taking it in with a small amount of awe.

He notices the letters ‘RB’ are engraved on two of the steel colored links. The letters would only be visible with Theon’s wrist facing up. Subtle. Ramsay’s initials. Theon inhales sharply, feels a strange sort of panic, like his heart is going to melt in his ribcage. God, he’s a fucking sap. To wear his name on his skin every day, on an item as simple as a watch…Theon’s stomach flips.

Ramsay is watching him with a careful expression on his face, giving nothing away. His eyes are like a winter landscape. “You don’t need to say anything. Just put it on.”

“Put it on me then,” Theon shoots back, being a brat on purpose. Tries to hide how vulnerable he feels in this moment.

Theon’s never been owned by anyone and this feels dangerously like being claimed. How ever he may have expected this morning to go, he never would have expected this.

Giving him a look, Ramsay saunters over and pulls the watch on Theon, like a shackle. It’s then that Theon gets a closer look at the watch on Ramsay’s wrist. As he twists his hands to snap Theon’s gift on, Theon sees the initials inscribed on Ramsay’s watch; ‘TG’ and feels shell-shocked.

Theon warms, feels like wrapping himself around the other man like a damn octopus. _Mine mine mine mine…_

Ramsay pulls up another chair when he’s done situating Theon. He pulls a folder out of his desk and pushes it towards Theon, along with the larger box that still remains unopened. Ramsay is looking at him with a blank face.

Theon stares back, tries to hide the shaking of his hands. He can’t get a read on the other man, has no idea how any of this is affecting him. Maybe none of it is; maybe this is nothing to Ramsay at all.

“Do you need a sign from God? Open it.” Ramsay says roughly.

Theon gives him a teasing look, trying to hide his nerves. He’s absolutely drowning. “I was waiting for you to tell me what to do.”

Finally, this gets a reaction. A flash of surprised pleasure crosses Ramsay’s face at his words.

Inside the larger, mahogany box is a fine leather collar with an engraved metal nametag that says ‘Bolton’. Theon tilts his head and stares at it in confusion for a moment. For a brief second, he wonders if this means that Ramsay has gotten him a dog, but then he realizes that _he’s the dog_. “You’re collaring me? Like an animal?”

He touches the leather carefully and tries to picture himself in it, imagines the humiliation of it being so blatantly visible to everyone. His dick twitches with interest and Theon hates himself for a brief moment. Why does this excite him, this disgusting proof of ownership?

Lifting his eyes from the leather, Theon meets Ramsay’s gaze. The other man is staring at him with a certain intensity now, almost like he wants to sink his teeth into Theon and eat him alive.

“You’ll wear it at the club. Everyone will know you belong to me and will respect you as such,” Ramsay says, eyes ravenous. “I want to see it on you. Put it on. Now.”

He never asks, Ramsay just tells.

With clumsy hands, Theon places it around his neck, buckling it into place with some difficulty. The collar isn’t exactly heavy, but it feels like it could sink Theon to the bottom of the ocean. Ramsay’s pupils are dilating and he licks his lips. “You have no idea what I want to do to you with that on.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” Theon says, embarrassed under that look, gently touches the skin under his new collar.

Ramsay leans forward, dark hair falling over his forehead, eyes like hungry sharks. Sharp and dangerous, black pupils just pits that yawn wide open. “Do you? Do you know how I want to ride your fucking mouth, put my cock down your throat while I hold on to that piece of leather with my name on it? While you drool on my fucking meat, suffocating on it? God, I bet you’d cry pretty too.”

The image is visceral in Theon’s head and he lets out a shaky breath, nearly cursing at the sick arousal the thought brings him. His eyes drift over Ramsay’s crotch and he imagines doing it, taking him into his mouth and letting him have his way, dominating Theon and holding him down with his cock and with his collar.

“You’re vile,” Theon mutters, feeling his cock twitch once more against his better judgement.

An icy grin, no teeth showing. “And you love that. Now. Open the folder. I’m getting impatient.”

Theon almost isn’t surprised to see the contract inside. Almost. His heart begins to flutter painfully in his chest, that anxiety like feeling that is almost uncomfortable. In fact, Theon can barely breathe. His hands hover over the official looking paper, shaking. His eyes rove over it, but he’s so shocked that he can’t seem to read the words on the page.

“It’s dated for the next two months. Figured I’d let us try it out, see what we want to change,” Bolton says quickly, the only hint that he’s feeling anything. Like he’s afraid Theon is going to disappear in a puff of smoke.

Despite it being for only two months, the idea of it seems to so permanent and that makes Theon feel panicky. He tries to focus on a few of the lines, makes note of the _subs body belonging to the dominant in the relationship_. Theon frowns, thinking of something.

“I want her gone,” Theon says suddenly, looking up from the contract.

“Who?” The fuck is playing stupid.

“Myranda,” Theon grits out. “I don’t want her in your playroom anymore. I don’t want you playing with her at all.”

Ramsay runs his tongue over his teeth, giving Theon a half-lidded stare. He doesn’t answer. The longer he looks at Theon, the more anxious Theon gets, feeling like he’s just overstepped his bounds, or he’s asked something utterly stupid.

He doesn’t like feeling like this, feeling like he has to compete for Ramsay’s attentions. Theon doesn’t like the thought that his body has to be the only one that is ‘owned’ in this relationship. Doesn’t seem fucking fair, frankly. If Ramsay gets to mandate that Theon’s body belong to him, then Theon wants him all to himself as well. “Are you going to give me an answer? Yes or no? It’s pretty simple, Bolton.”

A short, almost ersatz grin with no teeth flashes on Ramsay’s face. “I like watching you squirm.”

“Motherfu-”

Those eyes flash dangerously and Theon lets himself get cut off. Ramsay states lightly, “I will not take on clients, so long as you’re mine. And mine alone. Do you understand what that means?”

The relief Theon feels borders on ridiculous. “I take it you’re going to tell me either way.”

“Smart boy.” Ramsay pauses deliberately, eyes glittering with jealous intent. “It means, you’re not going to be fucking around behind my back. This will be your only warning, on this matter. And it _is_ a warning, Greyjoy.”

Theon frowns, one eyebrow cocking up. Is he saying what Theon thinks he’s saying? “So…what about groupies on tour…?”

It’s like watching a storm brewing in the distance, darkening clear skies. “Too late, Theon. You missed the boat on the ladies. That ship is about to sail. It’s either me and my dick or not at all. I won’t share. You will belong to me, so long as this contract stands.”

Well, Theon certainly had not thought about that. He’s flabbergasted. For a moment, the idea of it repels him. He scoffs. “I don’t do total commitment, I’ve never…”

Speaking in a sweet little baby voice that is far more ominous than it should be, Ramsay says, “Oh, am I asking too much of you? That’s fine; I’ll keep my whores and you can keep yours.”

Ramsay clicks open a pen and Theon realizes that he’s going to cross that section off on the contract.

Envy squirms in Theon’s belly, unbidden and unwanted. His heart drops down into the pits of his stomach and it squeezes painfully. He stares into those unyielding eyes and knows with terrible certainty that he must bend here. He does not want Bolton being touched by anyone else and he doesn’t want the man looking at anyone else. Especially not that awful bitch.

Theon is briefly disgusted with himself; he’s never wanted a person for his own, not like this.

His chin drops to his chest and he closes his eyes. What is it about Ramsay Bolton? How does he command Theon in this way? What is it that he does that makes Theon feel like suffocating when he’s absent? Even when Bolton does all these awful things, these horrible things, Theon still wants him.

It scares him to think that perhaps he always will. Theon might always want him. Bolton makes him _feel,_ though what he feels, he isn’t sure. Theon glances at the contract and sighs, skimming a few more lines.

_Acceptable Code of Conduct:_

_…submissive will behave with respect towards their dominant and will maintain an appropriate attitude in the presence of others…failure will result in punishment…_

_Sir, Mr., and Master are all acceptable terms for the dominant while at play or in the dungeon._ Theon rolls his eyes, but keeps reading quickly.

_…The submissive will not argue with or second guess the dominant in the presence of others…privately is permissible, but may be punished at the discretion of the dominant…_

_…will display excellent obedience while at their dominant’s dungeon…offer up their body to the dominant to be utilized as the dominant sees fit…_

_While away or out of town for…submissive will check in with the dominant via phone. If the dominant calls, the submissive will not screen calls for spiteful purposes…_

_…will be well taken care of by the dominant in return for, but not limited to: the submissive’s honesty, loyalty, obedience, sexual favor…_

_The submissive…not orgasm without consent…during sexual encounters with the dominant…_

_If issues arise…external authorities will not be utilized for resolution…_ (what the fuck does that mean?)

“It’s for two months, right? If one of us doesn’t like this arrangement, we don’t need to re-up, right?” Theon needs to know that there is a way out. That he isn’t trapped.

Commitment is a scary thing and it’s one of those scary things that Theon has always run from religiously. He always makes mistakes, ruins things. He’s not really good at following the rules and this contract is just full of fucking rules and punishment.

At least he knows he will be punished, that’s for certain.

The storm clouds on Bolton’s face darken further, his lips tightening. In a deceptively calm tone, he shrugs his shoulders and says, “Of course. You are free to leave me, if that’s what you want. When the contract is over.”

Staring at him, Theon doesn’t entirely trust that Ramsay is telling the whole truth. Emotions are ugly things, uncontrollable. Above all else; Bolton _is_ uncontrollable. “What happens if you don’t want me to leave? What happens if I don’t want you to leave?”

The thought nearly chokes Theon; he’d never thought of the idea that maybe Bolton won’t want him anymore at the end of the contract.

“Let’s not worry about the future,” Ramsay says flatly. “It’s a short contract. That’s it. That’s all. We aren’t getting married.”

With a scowl, Theon tries to focus on more lines in the contract, to make sure nothing else totally crazy comes up. “Can I write on this?”

“Why?” Ramsay’s tone is like a razorblade on skin.

“Because I want to make an elaboration on a few things,” Theon deadpans, holding his hand out for the pen in Ramsay’s hand. “As you can be…”

“I can be _what_?”

“…unrealistic.”

“Fine. That doesn’t mean I’ll accept your changes,” Ramsay says irritably, clearly upset by the request.

Theon writes ‘ _within reason’_ in large letters beside the line, _the sub will obey all commands._ Ramsay scowls as his eyes watch Theon’s pen hand slide across the page.

_Punishments:_

_To include, but are not limited to, hitting, slapping, caning, bondage, sensory deprivation, whipping, waterboarding, extended orgasm denial (_ Theon raises his brow here) _, public humiliation, cutting…_

Theon digs his pen into the paper as he writes: _the dominant will not mark or damage the submissive where visible to others, especially the neck and above, as the submissive works in the public eye._ After he gets a strange glance from Ramsay, he quickly squiggles in, _this does not include hickeys._

The other man snorts, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

_Hard Limits for Play:_

_Sharing of submissive…bestiality…scat play…sodomization with objects other than the dominant’s cock…stabbing…flaying of limbs…amputation…_

Theon looks up in horror. “Flaying? Amputation? What the fuck, man? Shouldn’t that be, like, a given? No amputating! What the hell?” He writes ‘fuck no, Bolton’ in big letters next to the hard limits, just in case Ramsay somehow forgets.

Ramsay shrugs his shoulders, looking out the window now. “Things come to my mind sometimes. I have to remind myself that you probably won’t like those ideas. I try to remind myself of things you would consider too far.”

Shaking his head, Theon sighs, gesturing with his free hand. “Okay. These are all…fucking horrifying. And yes, I would not be okay with any of these things, so thank you for writing them down as nope for me. Can I…write some things down that I would be alright with if you asked first?”

A dark look. “I don’t ask. I tell you what I want. That’s how this works.”

“I’ve noticed. I would like it if…for certain things you asked if I’ll be okay…I’ll say yes if you ask me. It just makes me feel safer.” It sounds stupid aloud, but it’s the truth as Theon knows it.

“I like it when you’re scared of me,” Ramsay says with a frown. “That isn’t going to work.”

“I’ll still be fucking scared if you ask or not, dick. You're scary. And that’s fine.” How does Theon explain this? “I just want to know that you’re ‘present’ when you do certain things. That you aren’t getting carried away. Asking isn’t you asking my permission, it’s telling me that you are rational enough to do whatever it is you want to do to me.”

Something flickers there, on Ramsay’s face. Realization. He looks away briefly, rubbing his face. His leg bounces anxiously a bit, a reaction Theon has never seen from him. “I get it. I’m aware. Of how I am. Continue.”

Theon starts writing whatever comes to mind.

_Soft limits; dominant must ask or give submissive advance notice of the following:_

_Cutting that will result in scarification, rape play, needle play, blood play, penetration with no preparation, permanent marking or branding of the submissive’s body…_

“Alright. I think I’ve looked at it all and fixed what I want for now,” Theon says finally, his stomach rumbling. Who is he kidding; he’s just starving and wants to eat ASAP.

Theon’s not entirely sure he’s caught everything on the contract, but at least he hammered out some of it. It’s just for two months, after all. What can go wrong in two months?

_Uh, a lot?_

They stare at each other, Theon with apprehension and Ramsay with persuasive dominance, always trying to get his way. “So. What’s it going to be, Theon? Are you going to be my ride or die?”

Theon snorts, a slight smile pulling at his lips over the term. Inside, he’s nervous, feels like rocks are sinking him down to the bottom of the sea. Theon _doesn’t do commitment_ and this is as real as it gets for him. The idea of it is terrifying, new territory. “Fine. No groupies, no bitches. Monogamy for us, fucking hell.”

“Then, sign it.” Stern, a command once again.

“So, do I sign here?” Theon puts the pen tip on the blank line beside ‘The Dominant’.

“If you want me to stab you with that pen, by all means, sign there,” Ramsay says with an edge, despite the amused look in his eye. “You’re such a cocksucker.”

Theon grins widely. He knows.

He writes his name on the line for ‘The Submissive’. Ramsay takes the pen from him and signs his own down beside ‘The Dominant’ in large swirling letters.

For a minute, they both stare down at the contract, their names now populated and set in stone for the next two months. _This is so fucking crazy,_ Theon thinks, beginning to wonder if he should be regretting this decision yet.

A bright grin flashes onto Ramsay’s face, the storm clouds fading away into nothing. “Great. I’m so glad that’s over with. You hungry?”

 _Jeez,_ Theon thinks sourly,  _does he even feel the weight of this on his shoulders? He's basically acquired me, like a piece of property. He acts like this is nothing when this is huge for me..._

Theon nods absently, trying to push the contract into the back of his mind. His eyes rove over the watch on his wrist instead, feeling the fine leather collar around his throat. Instead of feeling shackled, he feels completed. The contract is just a sheet of paper, a guideline for them.

Nothing more, nothing less. Theon can always leave at the end, can always say that he was only gay for the stay.

Ramsay unbuckles the collar from Theon’s throat and places it back in its box gently. Theon is glad that he doesn’t expect him to wear it outside of the club, relieved even. Then, his mind rebalances itself, focuses on Ramsay’s last words. Food. Breakfast. Leaving his bedroom. “Wait. Like, breakfast with _The Roose Bolton_? And…and Walda?” Oh, lord. Theon isn’t sure that he can cope with the idea of other people knowing what he did last night. Isn’t sure he is ready for that look to pass over his body.

It’s Roose Bolton’s house; he’ll probably be having breakfast too.

Ramsay groans as he stretches his body before padding over to the giant wood door to leave his room. “What are you worried about? We probably won’t see them; they go out on Sunday’s usually. Besides, Walda loves you. Wouldn’t stop bringing you up to me after your last time here. What did you do to her, by the way?”

Theon splutters, somewhat flattered that Walda saw fit to ask after him. “I mean, I had breakfast with her. She was sweet. Nice. I may have flirted with her a bit.”

The other man throws him a glare over his shoulder, his hand pausing on the doorknob. “You flirted with my dad’s wife?”

“It wasn’t-”

Ramsay comes back over to Theon and grabs him by the front of his shirt. “You’d better stop that. I’ll get jealous.”

His pale eyes rove over Theon’s lips and a sneer twists his mouth as he does so. Theon feels himself heat instantly, almost leans in for a kiss, but Ramsay pulls away with a snort. “You’re so _easy_.”

“Not anymore, apparently,” Theon mutters, thinking of the contract he just signed.

The corner of Ramsay’s lip twitches into a half smile. “Do something with your hair; you looked freshly fucked.”

“I always look that way,” Theon snarks back, but heads to the bathroom to deal with his hair. “Do you think we woke them up yesterday? With the noise? Fuck. I’m embarrassed. The fact that we’re both dudes makes it that much worse.”

“I’m thirty-two; do you honestly think my parents care what I get up to in bed? Besides, this place is huge, as you well know. The basement is sound proofed anyway, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s a strange thing to note, a section of the house being soundproofed. Theon dwells on what he remembers of that room, down in the depths of the Dreadfort. The strange white tile, the grates in the floor. “Why is your basement soundproofed?”

Ramsay leaves the bedroom, gestures for Theon to follow him. “Why do you always ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to?”

“Because I’m an insolent cunt?”

Bolton snickers, leading Theon down the grand bridal staircase. “You learn fast. I like that.”

“You must like something, that’s for sure,” Theon mutters dryly as they walk towards the dining area.

When they enter, Ramsay seems to freeze when he sees that the large, fine wood table is already occupied. A man that Theon doesn’t recognize, along with Walda, are already seated as servants lay out the breakfast across the expanse of the table.

The breakfast spread is immense and Theon is hardly shocked, based on what he ate when it had just been himself and Walda on the veranda. His stomach rumbles and his mouth waters at the sight of the food, the strong scent of coffee permeating the air.

His eyes fall on Walda as she smiles widely at the sight of him. “Theon! I didn’t know you were here! When did you get in?”

“Yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you when I came in, I would have said hello. It’s nice to see you again,” Theon says with a grin, trying to keep an embarrassed flush off his face.

He really, really hopes she didn’t hear the humiliating noises he made last night.

Because, there is a reason why Theon doesn’t exactly know when he got to the Dreadfort and why he never crossed her path the other day. _I didn't see you yesterday because I was in the freaking basement with your step-son, Walda. It was awful, until it wasn’t…_

“Theon. Hm. I feel like I’ve met you before,” a cool voice drawls from the other end of the table. “But, I just…can’t seem to place the where. You _do_ seem…familiar.”

Theon’s gaze drifts over to Roose Bolton. The similarities between father and son are striking; the dark hair and the pale, icy eyes. The man almost has an ageless quality to him, a sharply cut face and an emotionless gaze. Theon feels a sinking sensation in his chest as the man looks him over with an intelligent eye.

Like he knows all the things that Theon prefers to keep hidden deep inside.

Though they have never been properly introduced, Roose Bolton has indeed met Theon before; in the club while Theon was chained up and blindfolded, months ago. Theon would recognize that voice anywhere. Roose keeps his face schooled in an emotionless, disinterested mask, but there is a glint in his eye that says he knows damn well where he has come across Theon before.

He recognizes Theon from the club. From that night that Theon had been left strung up for hours. Theon nearly turns red.

“I…ah-”

Ramsay steps in and pretends that Roose has never met Theon. He curtly says, “Yes, father. This is Theon Greyjoy. A friend of mine.”

Those eyes, as pale as Ramsay’s, drill into Theon with painful awareness. He feels like his worth is being weighed, though against what, he does not know. Roose’s eyes drift over the watches on their wrists and Theon realizes that the man misses nothing. A sharp, quick smile that isn’t really a smile shapes Roose’s lips. “A pleasure, Mr. Greyjoy.”

Theon ducks his head sharply. What does one say, to a man known for having his hand in everything? A man known for his ruthlessness? A man people only whispered about? “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bolton.”

The older man has a tight smile and does not show his teeth. A strange, amused look shapes his face at those words. A secret shared between them; ‘ _I know that you know where I’ve seen you before’_.

“Will you two be joining us for breakfast?” Walda asks obliviously, her eyes on Theon, though with a much warmer gaze.

Theon answers ‘yes’ at the same time that Ramsay says ‘no’. They look at each other, scowls on their faces. Ramsay is holding himself with this air, like suddenly he’s changed his mind about them joining his family for breakfast after all. Theon doesn’t know why and frankly, doesn’t give a toot. He shrugs innocently and sits across from Walda.

Ramsay stiffens and Theon _understands_ that this is the _least submissive_ thing he could have done. He’ll probably be punished for it later, but fuck it, he’s starving.

Roose’s eyebrows shift slightly as he looks at his son and Ramsay huffs. He pulls out a chair and sits down beside Theon. “I’ve changed my mind. I guess we will join you,” he says with a fake smile and a sweet voice.

He plays it off like it had been his idea all along. Theon holds in a snort. Control. Ramsay doesn’t want to lose face in front of his father.

“So,” Roose asks conversationally, eyes drifting casually between the pair of them, “When did you two meet? I thought I knew all of Ramsay’s friends.”

Ramsay slams a stack of pancakes onto his plate with vengeance and douses them in syrup. “Nearly a year ago.”

“Save some for the rest of the world,” Theon growls under his breath as Ramsay continues to pour and pour the classy as hell looking maple syrup. He makes a grab for it, but Ramsay swats his hand away.

“Nearly a year?” Roose says with false surprise, pretending to mentally count the months back to when he saw Theon strung up. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you here more, Theon. Ramsay must have been keeping you to himself.”

Theon chokes on his French toast at the implication.

Walda pushes a carafe of fresh squeezed orange juice over to him with a gasp, “Oh, dear. Drink something quick, get it down the right pipe!”

With an enduring smile, Theon thanks her and pours himself a generous glass, gulping it down with a cough. They both are just spectators here, at this breakfast table; father and son are having three conversations at once, yet only one is being heard.

“My apologies, Father. I wasn’t aware that I needed to bring everyone I hang out with home for you to inspect. Seems rather…extraneous, don’t you think?”

The older man sips his coffee like a gentleman, eyes stuck on his son. “Nothing is ever extraneous where you are concerned. And…you are… _accident prone_.”

Lip curling, Ramsay shoves pancake into his mouth, eyes spitting fire.

“Ramsay, pour yourself some coffee,” Roose announces cordially. “You know how unbearable you are in the morning.”

Rolling his eyes, Ramsay pours himself coffee and dumps cream and sugar in it, a scowl on his face. “Of course, Father. Thank you for the reminder. How could I have forgotten?”

Theon vaguely wonders if this is going to be the most combative breakfast he has ever sat through.

“Having good self-awareness is a virtue,” Roose says with that low voice of his. “It would do you good to tie that with some self-control.”

“Christ almighty,” Ramsay hisses under his breath and Theon bites his lip to keep from smiling.

“Did you say something, Ramsay?” Walda asks politely, looking strained.

He smiles that madman grin, “No, Mother. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Walda pales and looks away from him, clearly disquieted. Theon doesn’t blame her. He leans forward and asks her, “More coffee, Walda?”

She brightens immediately with fondness. “Oh, aren’t you a dear! Yes, please.”

Ramsay munches on buttered toast as Theon pours Walda another cup of coffee, noting the grin on Theon’s face. He asks sourly, “What about me?”

Theon pauses and gives him a look. “What _about_ you?”

“What if I want some more coffee?” Ramsay says roughly, annoyance plain on his face.

“You don’t,” Roose interjects calmly. “And if you did, you are capable of pouring your own.”

Ramsay’s hand tightens around his fork and his knuckles go white. Theon shares a look with Walda and nearly snickers, because she appears to be thinking the same thing he is. She carefully asks, “Maybe we should…eat with a moment of silence and calm…for reflection?”

Roose’s tight lips strain into a firm, odd smile as he gazes at his wife. “Excellent idea, Walda. Ramsay; try to contain yourself.”  

Ramsay opens his mouth to hiss something awful across the table, but then he shuts his mouth with a clicking sound, his teeth slamming together. Theon holds in a sigh; all he wanted was to eat in peace, but this is rather outlandish as far as breakfasts go.

Breakfast passes without further abrasive conversation, though Walda does eventually engage Theon in some small talk once more, a shy look on her face. Ramsay rolls his eyes at everything she says and Theon gets the distinct impression that Ramsay does not like her.

After enough niceties have been made, Ramsay seems to have reached his limit.

“We’re leaving,” Ramsay says abruptly, standing up from the table.

He does not look at Theon, but this time Theon knows he is expected to follow Ramsay’s lead. He won’t be permitted to embarrass Ramsay in front of his father a second time. Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Theon gingerly stands up from his chair, hiding the slight wince of pain he feels in his nether regions.

Roose Bolton is looking at him knowingly, like he expects, his eyes drifting over the watches on their wrists again. He stands and holds his hand out to Theon to shake. “I expect I’ll be seeing more of you, Mr. Greyjoy.”

Theon isn’t sure what to say to that, but refrains from looking at Ramsay for guidance on how to respond. It’s almost like everything is on eggshells here. As they clasp hands to shake, Roose tilts Theon’s wrist just so and the older man gives him a calculating look, eyes no doubt catching the small initials on the band of the watch. Theon feels his heart drop into his stomach with a thud, feels ill under that gaze.

Theon nods and disengages his hand quickly, discreetly hiding his wrist behind his back.

Walda stands and clasps her hands anxiously. Theon can see it on her face; she wants to hug him, she’s the warm, hugging sort of person. She most likely has been living with Roose Bolton for so long that she’s forgotten that it’s acceptable to extend her kindness to others unwarranted. He steps forward towards her with intent and her eyes glitter with excitement. Theon hugs her and she squeezes him, whispering, “It was wonderful to see you again, Theon. Ramsay never brings friends to breakfast, you know.”

“I think I can see why,” Theon whispers back to her with a grin. “Do they always go at it like that?”

Walda pulls away from him and wiggles her eyebrows as an answer, giggling.

Theon makes to follow Ramsay out of the dining area when Roose stops them. “Ramsay. I’ll need you at work on Monday night. Don’t let _this_ interfere with your duties. Remember how things…are.”

Ramsay freezes, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he stares his father down. “I’m well aware, Father. I look forward to Monday.”

He turns to Theon. “Come, I’ll take you home,” Ramsay says stiffly, storming through the vaulted hall. “Garage is this way.”

Theon smirks at his clear irritation and stuffs his hands innocently in his pockets as he follows after the other man. When they are out of hearing range, Theon says lightly, “So, are we going in the fun car or in the rape van? I would really prefer the fun car this time.”

Ramsay doesn’t even pause in his stride to cuff Theon good as Theon laughs. “Bad joke, my bad! Oh, come on, you can laugh about it can’t you?”

An arm is thrown around his shoulders as Ramsay yanks him along. He presses his lips to Theon’s ear, teeth bared as he hisses, “You have an insolent mouth. You must enjoy being punished. Want a good thrashing before I drop you off?”

Impertinent to the end, Theon snaps back, “Gonna knock me out and drag me back to your basement? What would dear old dad say? Shit, maybe I should be calling him _daddy_.”

He finds himself thrown up against a wall with an arm across his throat, Ramsay’s arctic eyes wild. “Do not talk about my father, if you know what’s good for you.”

Theon shoves him off. “Dude, you have no chill. What has crawled up your ass?” He rubs his neck absently. “Shit. It was a joke. What is going on with you right now?”

Theon looks away, irritated with the amount of anger radiating off the other man. Ramsay has been carrying this tension ever since they walked in on breakfast, ever since Roose laid his eyes on Theon. Ramsay’s breathing hard, eyes carrying that vaguely homicidal gaze once more. The look that Theon can almost see murder in. Bloody, awful, screaming murder.

“What’s wrong?” Theon asks with exasperation. He doesn't know what has set Ramsay off like this. “You’re tweaking out over nothing.”

Ramsay sighs and steps away, running a hand over his face, a human gesture finally. Trying to hide that bloodthirsty look, trying to put it back under his skin. “Just stay away from him.”

This is ridiculous, like Theon is going to go out of his way to hang around Roose Bolton. The man makes Theon uncomfortable, like he’s watching a live surgery in 4K on a knee joint and just can’t look away as the scalpel digs in. The way Roose had looked at Theon…it was far too scheming, assessing. It made Theon feel like an object. “Okay. I'll stay far away from your dad.”

“Good.”

The garage is huge, like Theon thought it would be, filled with an assortment of cars. He marvels at them as they walk through two rows, getting to Ramsay’s NSX at the end.

They settle into the vehicle and just as Theon is buckling his seat, Ramsay grabs his face roughly, forcing Theon to meet his eyes in the privacy of the car. As their gaze’s lock, their breathing changes, hitches briefly before slowly syncing together, almost beyond their knowledge. Mirrored body language signifying their intent focus on each other.

“When I leave you at your place today, are you going to regret everything?” The question is precise, pointed. _Do you regret me_ echoes behind it and _are you going to run away again_?

“If you are asking me if I’m afraid of you, then yes, I am. But you want that,” Theon says carefully, the hair on the nape of his neck prickling with awareness.

Ramsay’s breath touches his lips softly. “I want your fear of me, but I also don’t want you to leave. My needs…aren’t easy…and it’s so hard to not break what I want.”

It’s times like these that Theon feels like he’s caged with a wild animal, one trying to fight its natural instinct to tear him apart. He enjoys the way it makes his heart race, his veins thrumming with adrenaline. At the same time, it also terrifies him and makes him want to crawl into a ball and hide.

He gazes into those eyes and feels heat build in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m not leaving you,” Theon settles on, out of all the things he could have said. It seems to have the proper effect. Theon frowns though, one thing bothering him out of that whole conversation. “And, who says you need to leave my place once we get there? Your dad doesn’t need you back until Monday night anyway.”

Relief appears in Ramsay’s eyes briefly, though it disappears as his pupils grow large and hungry. His gaze falls to Theon’s lips, his desire undeniable now. “Needy slut.”

Theon gives him a cocky grin. “Take me home, horndog. We’ll see who’s needy then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are loved!! They make me smile and motivate me, a HUGE thank you to all who have commented so far and stuck with this monster fic.


	16. The Dungeon Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those belong to George R. R. Martin.

_“I can’t diagnose him, Roose. He’s too young.”_

_His father is still, deathly so. Roose Bolton is not a man prone to emotion or undignified facial expressions. He is, above all, sharp and cold. Precise. A blade with utter purpose, unmerciful. Though he keeps his pale eyes firmly on the family doctor, Roose Bolton softly commands, “Stop fidgeting, Ramsay.”_

_Ramsay clenches his hands and stills his bouncing leg. He bites his lip, tries to keep his anxiety driven movements to a minimum as his father commands. He looks up at his father, waits for him to acknowledge the fact that Ramsay listened adequately, but Ramsay may be a rather uninteresting rock for all the attention his father gives him._

_Roose sits with his back straight, hands still. Always so still. A predator waiting for prey to walk by._

_“What do you mean, you can’t diagnose him? He’s been running roughshod all over the estate since he got here, not to mention the trouble he caused his mother.”_

_The doctor serving the Bolton family, Wolkan, is a large set man with sad eyes. Ramsay isn’t sure he understands why his father has him retained on staff, considering the man seems rather soft for a doctor. Ramsay doesn’t like him; the man asks uncomfortable questions and has this look in his eyes when he speaks to Ramsay; like he’s being made ill just being in his presence._

_“I understand…that there have been some difficulties…”_

_Roose doesn’t snort, but a lesser man may have done just that, as disdain is present in his tone as he says, “He strung up my stable boy. He laced Ben’s drink with a small dose of rat poison just to see what would happen, after Ben scolded him for causing trouble in the kennels. Then, he cornered one of our maid’s…and well…you saw the girl. I want results, Wolkan, not your sniveling.”_

_It’s hard to keep from fidgeting again, so Ramsay clenches his teeth hard, so hard that his jaw hurts. He’s giving himself a headache and it’s miserable. Everything had seemed like a good idea at the time, but hearing these things from his father’s lips makes it all seem rather childish and pathetic. He’s embarrassed; his father isn’t happy with him and if he isn’t happy with him then his father might just send him away._

_He doesn’t want to be sent away, not again._

_“Father-”_

_“Quiet. I’ve heard enough out of you,” Roose says flatly, still not looking at the boy sitting on the couch beside him. “You act like an animal; you will get treated like one.”_

_Wolkan waits until there is silence again before speaking. “A person must be eighteen years of age before the Antisocial Personality Disorder diagnosis can be given. While Ramsay has many of the required traits, he doesn’t manifest enough of them. He also has empathy; he just chooses to ignore it when it suits him. He has intense reactions to things, so he is not without emotions. The thing I’m more concerned about is the…aggression and lack of restraint…which after speaking to him, I believe I can attribute it to something specific.”_

_“I imagine you are going to tell me,” Roose says conversationally, as if they are speaking of the weather._

_The doctor sighs. “He’s told me that he has intense thoughts of violence. Where you and I might see a person, he sometimes just sees blood and gore, an image of something disturbing. A brief, momentary vision. A visceral emotion. He’s aware these…fantasies are not real and are not acceptable, but he wants to make them real. The thoughts and the pain he causes to others…well…”_

_“Don’t take all day, man.”_

_“They arouse him. I believe he may have a sexual sadism disorder.”_

_Roose frowns now, his eyes shifting down to glance at his fourteen-year-old son. “So, he’s a sadist? A lot of men are. It isn’t uncommon. The answer is insufficient, Wolkan. He’s getting uncontrollable.”_

_“You are correct; sadism itself isn’t uncommon or dangerous. It can be a general trait in people. But…sometimes it can manifest as a paraphilic disorder. When the urges become criminal in nature and cause severe harm, then it’s a problem. Ramsay has expressed difficulties with control, which has led me to believe that he is quite aware of what is acceptable and what isn’t. He relishes brutality and being physically and mentally cruel to others. All the time. He can’t turn it off.”_

_Ugh. Stupid old man, Ramsay thinks. He thinks he knows me after asking a few stupid questions. It’s all just a game…don’t make father hate me…_

_“I’m sorry. Father, I-” Ramsay whispers, digging his fingers into his thighs._

_His father is ashamed of him, why can’t he just control himself and be the perfect son? Why does stupid Wolkan have to get involved?_

_“Hush,” Roose replies flatly._

_“Obviously, I’ll keep working with him on exercises to help him shift these thoughts on the back-burner in his mind. They should become less with time and practice. But, this sort of personality disorder is rarely ever ‘cured’, only maintained. There are…also medications that we can try…especially if he does eventually manifest ASPD as well.”_

_His father’s stern face shifts, looks even more displeased. “You know I am not fan of such things. I prefer my leeches to modern drugs. What are you thinking of for him?”_

_Wolkan looks hesitant, his hands clenched in his lap. “We can look at phenothiazines, antiandrogens-”_

_Roose tenses. None of those big words mean anything to Ramsay, but the way his father stills has him nervous. “Effectively, you would neuter my son. Unacceptable. Absolutely not,” Roose says sharply._

_The doctor sighs heavily. “I figured you would feel that way. Can we at least try mood stabilizers? In conjunction with my sessions with him? They may make him tired or more irritable, but we can change it up to see what helps.”_

_“Try, I suppose.” Roose pauses, lips tightening once more in a firm line. “So, despite all that has been going on around here, you still won’t call him a Sociopath?”_

_Wolkan shifts in his fine leather chair and shakes his head. “Please don’t use that term in front of him. It isn’t a correct label to give him. He has empathy, though not much of it. The more accurate fit would be Antisocial Personality Disorder. As I also said, he’s not old enough to be given such a damning diagnosis. There are rules around these things.”_

_“But, you are willing to label him with a sexual sadism disorder. Isn’t that damning enough? Can’t he have both?”_

_The doctor sighs and avoids looking at Ramsay. His gaze always seems to drift over him, like the very sight of him is an affront to nature. “If he does, we need to keep him busy and out of trouble. Usually, the only time someone with sexual sadism disorder is diagnosed is if they have committed a violent sexual crime or homicide and are caught. Either way, we know he is sexually aroused by the idea of harming others in extremely gruesome manners and he needs help coping with these urges.”_

_His father sighs, shoulders softening subtly. Almost resigned. “What am I to do with him, Wolkan?”_

_The doctor shakes his head, looks at Ramsay finally with those awful, watery eyes. “He needs a purpose, Roose. What is he good at?”_

_“Aside from the obvious?”_

_“Yes,” Wolkan replies sternly, unamused. “His energies must be focused or they will go everywhere and you will not like the outcome of that.”_

_Ramsay’s father finally shifts slightly in his seat, looks down at him with cool eyes. Roose studies him and Ramsay does his best to meet his father’s gaze head on. “He is rather good with animals, surprisingly. He seems to enjoy being with the hounds and the horses. Training things. That’s what he’s good at.”_

_Wolkan nods sagely, folding his fingers. “He can empathize a little easier with the animals. Give him a job working for Ben, then. Have him learn how to train and control the hounds for the hunt. Have him learn how to be a better horseman so he can join in with the sport. Give him physical action that he can succeed in, Roose.”_

_The animals have no power. No control. Ramsay likes that. It gives him complete authority and he enjoys how that makes him feel. They cannot take their affection for him away. They cannot reject him. They simply exist. They give him what he wants and it’s a simple relationship. It isn’t complicated. People are so complicated, always lying or taking things away._

_Take his mother, for example. She abandoned him at Roose’s doorstep when he became too hard for her to handle. Said he scared her. She called him a monster. He’d seen it in her eyes, the way she would pretend to love him when all she really wanted was for Ramsay to be out of her life._

_Well, she got her wish._

_Ramsay likes exposing people for what they are, stripping away their stupid masks that they wear. He likes the faces they make when something devastates them, tears running down their faces, the desperate sounds they make when they beg-_

_Wolkan snaps his fingers loudly a few times. Like he knows where Ramsay’s mind has just gone. “Ramsay, can you please talk to me about training the hounds? I know you’ve been playing with some of Ben’s new puppies.”_

_His mind fractures a bit, comes to a halt. Turns. Resettles to refocus. “Ah…the puppies? Well, I’ve been training them on impulse control. With their food. That idiot-”_

_Roose cuffs him on the back of the head and Ramsay scowls._

_“…_ Ben _just puts the food dishes down and lets them all fight and devour it without waiting. I’ve been teaching them to wait until I say they can eat. I’m teaching them to listen. To me. The hounds are loyal and I think I can train all of the new puppies if…Ben…would let me.” Ramsay turns his gaze to his father, eager. “I told him I wouldn’t hurt them! I haven’t. I won’t. They’re mine and I’ll train them well-”_

_His father gives him a curious look as he stares down at Ramsay. “The hounds are mine. You are mine. Remember that. But I will have you work in the kennels from now on. With Ben. And you will listen to him, even if it irritates you. Or I will know.”_

_Ah, yes. Ramsay knows what a belt feels like when he’s bent over his father’s desk. His father has even used the buckle on him before. It was painful. Ramsay remembers thinking at the time that he would love to whip someone else with a belt, would love to see their skin change colors, would want to run his tongue up and down the bloody marks, because he would hit hard enough to see someone bleed-_

_His father is not like him. Not many people are like Ramsay and Ramsay is well aware. His father does not enjoy causing pain, he simply wants order and results. Beating his son occasionally gives him the results he wants._

_“It will get better,” Wolkan says softly, eyes flitting away from Ramsay, as if he can’t bear to look at him. “If we are consistent and persistent, he will become manageable. Like I said; he isn’t unaware, Roose. And, he’s still young.”_

_“I hope you are right, Wolkan. He’s brought me a lot of grief.”_

_Ramsay doesn’t like hearing that. It’s like a burning knife in his heart, twisting and digging, hearing his father is displeased with him. He’s so lost; he doesn’t know what he can do to make him proud. How can he not be himself?_

_The doctor shuffles his notes, the pages filled with words concerning his earlier interview session with Ramsay. His answers to various questions. “I believe you will find him to be an asset, in time. In regards to your…other engagements…I believe you will be able to give him an outlet for his urges.”_

_A strange, cruel smile barely shapes Roose’s tight lips. Those passionless eyes drift back to Ramsay and for once Ramsay sees a vision of potential in his father’s eyes. He wonders why. Roose says, “I had not thought that far into the future. Perhaps you are right, Wolkan. There are jobs…in my businesses…that many deem unbearable. Do you think such a job would help to focus him from causing trouble in other circumstances?”_

_Wolkan nods. “Absolutely. Sexual sadists have always excelled in…well…the sort of job you need one for. And one with the urge to go all the way can be so rare to come by. But let’s focus on control for now or else he’ll be in jail by sixteen.”_

_“Agreed.”_

* * *

 

* * *

Theon Greyjoy is an accident.

He’s an accident that should have never sauntered through Ramsay’s fucking door in the first place.

The day they meet is an ordinary day, nothing special about it. Men have, after all, strolled through Ramsay’s door before. Always thinking they have what it takes. That they’re tough and they have something to prove. ‘Oh, look how _brave_ I am, I can face down the big scary bad in the dungeon’, or something to that tedious note.

If only they knew that when they walk in his door, they essentially take their life in their hands and play roulette with how his mindset happens to be that particular day. Men are hard, he’s found. Not because they are hard to work with, but because he has trouble with his own fucking mind. When he ties them up in that dark room, beats them, whips them bloody, he finds it so hard to not simply…well…best not think of that…

_ Cut them to bits, feed them their own fingers, hear them scream _

Ramsay finds it tiresome, because so many people walk in thinking they _know_ how the outcome will be. They think he can be controlled.

Women are easier. Most avoid his room, after all. His sort of play isn’t the sort that most find enjoyable. He plays hard, harder than most. Blood, screams, sharp objects and a lot of ignoring the word ‘no’. Ladies have intuition, much like female animals do; they sense when something is wrong. Perhaps it’s something in his eyes, maybe there’s a certain emptiness there when he’s wearing his pleasant face.

Or, perhaps it’s when his vision starts to paint the world red that they decide that monsters do exist and one is standing in front of them.

Some women though, like blood just as much as he does. The only problem is, there is little gratification in having a willing bitch moaning like a whore on his rack when all he wants to hear are _screams_ of agony. Myranda has always been one of these women and he’s indulged her for years. An easy fuck, for the most part, if he’s feeling stressed and just wants to let loose a bit.

It’s always been an empty affair, on his part at least. It’s hard for him to feel things for those that appear little better than animals in his mind. He doesn’t want the emotional baggage and seeing someone _expecting_ him to display emotions of love and adoration towards them is utterly repulsive.

They can love or adore him all they want; just don’t expect him to feel the same. In fact, the more despairing these women get, the more pleased he becomes, like drinking a fine wine. Fuck love; misery tastes so much better.

Ramsay couldn’t have possibly known how his life would change the night that Theon _fucking_ Greyjoy walks into his room beneath _The Dreadfort Nightclub_. He walks in with that swagger, the type that makes Ramsay roll his eyes in disdain. _Oh, more fresh meat,_ he thinks, _ready to be chewed up and spat back out._

He vaguely wonders if Greyjoy will be like those men who just think they are tough or if he will be like the poor little twinks who get off on pain, who want to be subservient in all ways. Both personas are extremely disgusting to Ramsay, though he figures he can rattle the mini-rockstar either way. He knows who he is; you’d have to be living under a rock to have not heard of Theon Greyjoy and _The Drowned Wolves_.

Ramsay quickly finds that Theon doesn’t fit any box he has in his mind.

Theon Greyjoy can’t listen to a command worth a damn. This piece of meat has a mouth on him, one that deserves to be beaten in for its sheer impudence. He doesn’t even want to be in Ramsay’s fucking room. It seems like he has found his way there like a lost puppy, confused and irritated over _Ramsay’s fucking existence in his own fucking club_.

Arrogant. Prideful. Deserving of being knocked down all the way to the bottom.

_ Arrogance and pride are part of the fun, stripping them away like flesh. People change, under the blade, in pain. Prying their armor away and watching them crumble underneath…nothing can replace that feeling. _

_ Nothing makes him harder than watching someone break. _

He finds it only slightly amusing that the other man thinks he can place rules on Ramsay, telling him ‘you can’t touch my face’ and drivel like that. As if Ramsay is beholden to him. As if he cares what the bitch on his floor _wants._

Ramsay has never really cared about the needs or wants of others; especially not if those desires get in the way of what his end goals are.

Despite all the bravado that Greyjoy displays that night, he’s afraid under it all. Trembling, shaking, hyperventilating, all the typical signs of someone truly feeling unsafe. As everyone should feel, around Ramsay. Unsafe. Like being in a cage with a tiger who has the taste for human flesh.

Or, the obvious; being in the same room as some who dreams of murder in their spare time.

What Ramsay finds intriguing is the fact that the more terrified Greyjoy becomes, the harder his dick gets. Greyjoy’s dick, not his. He stares down at the hooded, trembling form on his floor and sneers with cruel amusement. So, the local rockstar gets his rocks off on being humiliated and terrified. Who knew? Who would have guessed?

It’s no secret that Greyjoy is a womanizer. Groupies brag about their nights with him to the press, scandalous tales show up in the news. Something about a huge dick, or something. Or the time the press caught him getting arrested for indecent exposure. The guy is shameless when it comes to women and fucking.

And here that same guy is, cowering on Ramsay’s dungeon floor, getting a chubby out of sheer terror.

Power is such a heady thing. Having a man kneel before him, trembling, terrified of what he might do. Control gets Ramsay hard; the body that kneels before him is only that- a body. The person inside doesn’t matter aside from how hard they break.

It’s clear that Theon has waltzed into his club without a fucking clue, probably expecting to get laid or something equally mundane. Except, he ends up in Ramsay’s room, whining over the fact that the Dom there happens to be a man, and then Theon wallows in humiliation over the blatant fact that he’s gotten a raging boner over something he had not expected to turn him on.

To say the guy is horrified over his sick arousal is an understatement. His humiliation is sweet like candy while he’s saying some sort of drivel on not being gay. _Hah_. Labels don’t matter, not in the dungeon. A body is a body and power is power.

That night, Ramsay controls himself from doing anything permanent and simply chokes him out after shaking him up. He sends him to the recovery room. He effectively washes his hands of the situation, expecting to just faintly recall it as the night an oversexed rockstar ended up in his club. He thought that would be the last he’d ever see of him.

He’d thought wrong, obviously.

* * *

 

* * *

_He’s sixteen and Wolkan is using cards with images again._

_Wolkan holds up the image of an animal, a big, happy golden fluffer with a sloppy tongue. Ramsay stares at it blankly, “Dog.”_

_The older man nods apprehensively. He holds up the image of a concrete expanse. Ramsay sighs; he knows that Wolkan is starting out ‘easy’. Starting out with things that can’t possibly overexcite him. “The city.”_

_A few more cards are shown and Ramsay responds with boredom to them all until Wolkan holds up a picture of a woman in a short skirt and a lowcut top. “Pig.”_

_Wolkan’s lips tighten and the skin around his eye’s creases, but he lets it slide. He holds up a picture of a man, sitting and crying, hand covering his face._

_The reaction is immediate, a flash of an image playing its own story in his head. “Meat.”_

_The doctor is most displeased with this response and Ramsay knew he would be. He’s well aware that the words he is saying are not the right words, but sometimes he says them just to get a reaction, just to watch Wolkan squirm like a disgusting worm._

_That’s entertaining, after all and Ramsay hates being bored._

_He continues on this way, saying the first thing that pops into his head._

_“Filth.”_

_“Slut.”_

_“Dead.”_

_Wolkan turns green, like he’s going to vomit on his fancy oriental rug. “Are you even trying? Look at the photos, Ramsay. Separate your desire from what you see. Focus.”_

_He flashes another card that shows a woman kneeling, tears running down her face. Ramsay huffs, stares at it, gritting his teeth. He shifts and looks away briefly. The doctor frowns. “I’m looking for an immediate response, Ramsay.”_

_Ramsay inhales sharply and pushes the image in his head away, the dark fantasy that had played itself out. He grins tightly, pained. “A woman. Crying.”_

_Wolkan relaxes and exhales, putting the card down on the table. “Better.”_

_When they are done, Ramsay stands by Wolkan’s office door with hesitation. The older man is busying himself with something at his large, fancy wood desk; a gift from Ramsay’s father for his many years of dedicated service. When Ramsay doesn’t leave the office, Wolkan sighs, but does not look up from his papers. “Is there something you want, Ramsay?”_

_Ramsay shifts from foot to foot. “The new pill assortment is making me tired. It’s giving me weird dreams too. Really freaky ones.”_

_He hates asking for help, especially from Wolkan. It feels like pulling his own teeth, having to admit to any weakness._

_Wolkan doesn’t stop shuffling his papers. Doesn’t look up. Ramsay hates that, hates how the man always tries to shut him out like he doesn’t exist when he can’t see him. Like a damn infant playing peek-a-boo. “I would hate to imagine what sort of dreams would bother you. Give it time. It could take a few weeks for the chemicals in your body to settle in with the new drugs.”_

_Clenching his fist, Ramsay tries again. “I don’t care about anything.”_

_He doesn’t mention that it’s really hard to want to get out of bed in the morning as well. He’s noticed it. Nothing that used to interest him is interesting. And not just fantasizing about cutting parts off of human beings, but things like riding his horse or training the hounds._

_With deliberate intent, Wolkan starts looking through one of his books, humming absently, like he’s searching for something. Ramsay knows he’s not searching for anything; Wolkan is doing this as an attempt to hurt him. And, he is. Like a parent withholding affection from a child just because the child has done something to upset them._

_And Ramsay upsets Wolkan just by ‘being’. Wolkan resents the fact that Roose has landed his unwanted bastard at his feet. For ‘fixing’._

_Wolkan shifts in his chair, leans down to inspect something closer on a page. “Is the lack of interest accompanied by suicidal thoughts?”_

_“No.” Yes._

_Something is his voice finally makes Wolkan look up. The older man studies him carefully. Then his face falls. “I’m sorry, Ramsay. Stop taking the medicine. I’ll think of a different mix.”_

_Something akin to relief rushes through Ramsay. He can’t tell his father these kinds of things, he only has Wolkan to confide in. Even though Wolkan wishes he could do without Ramsay, of course. He knows Wolkan tells his father everything, but that’s better than Ramsay attempting to speak with his father about anything personal._

_Roose sees everything as a weakness._

_Being weak is unacceptable._

_“Thanks, Wolkan.” It’s polite to thank people, that’s what Wolkan always tells him._

* * *

 

* * *

The second time Theon Greyjoy shows up at _The Dreadfort Nightclub_ , Ramsay is up on the second floor, looking down at the swarming mess of meat below. People watching isn’t really his thing, but imagining what everything looks like covered in crimson _is_.

Fantasizing about the smell of copper making the air thick…

His thought process gets interrupted when he sees one gore-covered mess bust its way through the dance floor, cutting through the others like a knife. Heading straight for the stairway to go down. Ramsay frowns and focuses until that pile of bleeding flesh reshapes into a young man with a stubborn cut to his shoulders and a prideful tilt to his head.

Theon Greyjoy.

_What is he doing here? Back for seconds? He’s more stupid than I thought. I already told him I don’t want him for a client. Disobedient. What do I have to do to get rid of him?_

_Aside from the obvious,_ he thinks with a nasty sneer, _obviously._

* * *

 

* * *

_He’s eighteen when he manipulates his ’girlfriend’ of the moment into slitting her own wrists._

_It takes time and patience, but working on be nice and boring had been so suffocating. Wolkan’s words always float around in his head, always telling him to be aware of things that are not considered acceptable in society, to be aware that some of the things that arouse him are…well…pretty scary to the rest of the world._

_It’s physically and mentally tiring, trying to keep his nice boy mask in place. It’s like wearing an ill-fitting costume, like he can just unzip his skin and step out of it to get relief. After a few months, he gets utterly sick and tired of the strain of staying in that fake mask. The irritation, the feeling of being caged, of being smothered…he starts forgetting to take his mood stabilizers._

_Once he realizes that he’s forgotten, it’s already too late and he doesn’t fucking care about taking them anymore. He’s having far too much fun, he’s been unleashed, set free._

_Everything becomes a game and no game is off limits for him._

_He twirls her around his finger, playing her like an instrument. Without the drugs, life suddenly becomes clearer again. Every time she speaks, every time she looks at him, suddenly he can see the right things to say that will make her crumble and wither away inside. He gets a special thrill gaslighting her, just to watch her question her own sanity._

_It’s too simple, making her believe that everything is always her fault. The destroyed look on her face, the unhappiness in her eyes…once he’s had a taste of it all, he can’t stop, won’t stop, doesn’t want to stop. He literally drives her mad and devours her agony like candy._

_When she’s had all she can take, she slits her wrists. She does it in his bathroom, her red blood staining his floors and Ramsay honestly doesn’t feel like telling Wolkan that there is indeed a girl dying in his room. He watches her bleed out for a bit, aroused and hungry. Vaguely wonders what it would be like to debase her and torment her in her last few moments of life…_

_…the light would die from her eyes, she’d become a shadow, her tattered mind unable to take anything anymore if he were to piss on her worthless form and then…_

_But, the girl can’t die here. Her parents would sue. His father would be furious. The very idea of his father being disappointed in him makes Ramsay’s heart seize, pushing him into action. He finds Wolkan in his office on the first floor and tells him that they probably need an ambulance, but maybe Wolkan can stop the bleeding._

_The man is horrified, his jaw going slack. “I thought you were doing fine, you said you were doing fine in therapy,” Wolkan says as they race back to his room._

_Ramsay lies, adopting a confused expression, “I am fine. I have no idea why she would do something like this. I’d never thought-”_

_“Stop it,” Wolkan yells at him, surprising Ramsay momentarily. “You look too pleased with your own lie and I know you too well, boy.”_

_He can’t help it; he smirks. He’s had far too much entertainment these past few weeks._

_In Ramsay’s room, Wolkan successfully stops the bleeding and holds pressure on her wrists. Her breathing is shallow and she’s not conscious. When the ambulance is there, Ramsay politely declines going to the hospital, playing the traumatized victim to the T. “I broke up with her,” he says with false sadness, “she told me that ‘she’d show me’, that she’d kill herself if I didn’t take her back. It was all so awful.”_

_Wolkan looks like he wants to be sick, skin paling._

_“It’s not your fault,” the EMT says, taking notes. “Don’t take it personally. Some people…they just need help. Don’t blame yourself.”_

_Ramsay pretends to blink back a tear and wipes at his face discreetly as he nods his understanding to the EMT._

_When the ambulance is gone, Wolkan backhands him. “You’ve gone off your medicine,” Wolkan says with disappointment. “And based on this display, you’ve been off it for some time. I should have known you couldn’t handle a relationship. You…could have killed her! In fact, that’s what you wanted.”_

_Ramsay snarls in frustration, rubbing his cheekbone. “I suppose you’re going to tell my father, aren’t you?”_

_With revulsion, Wolkan takes a step backward. “You know I have to. He’ll set you straight again. Though, I think what he has in mind for you will be a reward. One you don’t deserve.”_

_He’s been under Wolkan’s medical care for four years now and still the man tries to keep his disdain up like wall. Like he hasn’t forced Ramsay to bare his fucking soul to him three times a week, every week. He treats him like he’s this monster empty of everything; organs, heart, and feelings._

_Wolkan knows he has thoughts if nothing else; he loathes Ramsay’s thoughts._

_“Well, fucking good! I’m tired of being your experiment, one you mess with until you get the results you want. I’m human, even if you think I’m not.”_

_“I know you are. It- it breaks my heart that we have to struggle this hard, you and I. But I don’t want to worry about you for your entire life! Can’t you see that? I want to be able to let you go out on your own and know that you will be able to control yourself.”_

_“This is who I am!” Ramsay yells, face red. “I’ll always be this way! No drugs will ever change that.”_

_He storms off without allowing Wolkan any more time to speak. Ramsay goes to his room and watches a snuff film; decides he’s going to indulge in everything while he’s off the drugs. He watches someone get murdered on screen and waits for his father to come and dole out his punishment._

_For some reason, that moment doesn’t come._

* * *

 

* * *

It turns out that Theon Greyjoy is like a stray that doesn’t know when to stay away.

At first, it’s annoying. The guy doesn’t know what he wants or what he’s doing. But then, Ramsay finds that he doesn’t entirely mind being the one to guide him, the one showing him how it would be if Ramsay were to decide on allowing him to stay on as a permanent client.

Which he doesn’t want to do. He doesn’t want Greyjoy as a client. There are very good reasons for that. It’s fucking hard enough to not strangle him to death when he’s being mouthy as shit. Ramsay has to have mental conversations with himself, telling himself not to fucking garrote the insolent cunt in the men’s bathroom and call it a day.

It’s hard to keep his restraint in place. Greyjoy doesn’t make it easy; his personality doesn’t make it easy at all. He’s not a submissive bitch, not the kind Ramsay usually sees. Greyjoy is a rebellious bitch and that’s far worse, because that’s a challenge, and challenges make him want to paint the walls red.

But eventually it becomes charming in a way; the way he acts completely put out at Ramsay’s feet, treated like a dog. His reluctance to give in. Greyjoy puts up this front, this furious indignant front, but then he gives. Ramsay wonders what it would be like to crush him to bits, see what his insides look like, what they feel like in his hands.

He reads him easy enough; it’s all about the reluctance. Greyjoy wants to play the martyr, gets a kick out of it. He wants to be the unwilling victim who is always having something taken away. He has no interest in pain, which Ramsay finds endlessly fascinating.

No one comes to him again and again if they aren’t into pain. Yet, Greyjoy _keeps crawling back_.

He comes back, even after he leaves him hanging in chains for hours on end. He comes back after Ramsay drugs him and parades him around like a prized Pomeranian in the club. Theon Greyjoy comes back despite it all.

Tenacious. Like a cockroach.

Eventually, he decides to keep him. Like an acquired toy. One that he can throw away when he’s done. He’d been repeatedly pleased with how well Greyjoy submits; the unwilling aspect is delicious. The fact that the other man puts up a fight and doesn’t make it easy only makes it all the more thrilling. Even if it tests the edges of Ramsay’s restraint.

It makes him think of those women, the kind who are always saying, ‘no, I’m not feeling it, I don’t think I want this after all,’ and then once he puts it in, they sing a different song, begging for it. Theon Greyjoy is like that. He’s like those girls. Says, ‘no, I won’t do as you ask’, but then kneels like an angel once he’s been forced. Pliant and obedient after a brief scuffle for control.

He wants Ramsay to earn it. Cute. But not quite.  

Bending another man to his will…there’s something to be said for being able to do that. To make them lesser, to make them feel like less. To make them enjoy submitting to him. Ramsay is entertained. Greyjoy is always entertaining.

It doesn’t take Ramsay long to decide that he wants to own Theon Greyjoy. Wolkan would say that isn’t normal, but Ramsay doesn’t really care.

* * *

* * *

It doesn’t happen overnight. Not even after a few weeks.

But it does happen.

He _likes_ having Greyjoy around. He likes the way Greyjoy pushes back, the way he says whatever comes to his mind without caring what Ramsay might think or do. He likes the way that suffering has already shaped Greyjoy into something he can work with.

Things get a little fuzzy when Greyjoy tries to make emotional connections of course, asking personal questions and the like. That makes Ramsay feel slimy inside, exposed. He doesn’t like feeling that way, can’t allow the other man to see any vulnerability.

That would give the little shit the impression that they are on equal footing; they aren’t. Greyjoy has very little respect as it is and Ramsay isn’t willing to let that completely diminish because he gives in to Greyjoy’s emotional needs.

They’re fine the way they are. They don’t need emotions to get in the mix. He won’t let his own weird brand of fondness screw this up. Besides, Ramsay is more fond of sharp objects anyway.

Speaking of sharp objects, Greyjoy goes under the knife like a saint, terrified and brave, but giving effortlessly.

The knife play is pure heat in Ramsay’s belly. Every mark he makes has him panting, wanting to run his tongue up and down the cuts. He’s glad that he blindfolded Greyjoy for it, because otherwise he’d see just how little control Ramsay actually _has_.

_Don’t maim him, don’t main him, just mark him up, that’s all you need, just some blood, he’s already suffering…_

Theon Greyjoy doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how unsafe he really is. Ramsay does try. He tries very hard to keep him safe, but it takes all of his willpower to do so.

Even then, even after being careful, Ramsay still goes too far and Theon crawls away with his tail between his legs.

Ramsay isn’t very good at taking care of humans and it shows, unfortunately.

* * *

* * *

He only begins to realize that things have gone too far when it’s too late.

Jealously isn’t a feeling that he’s acutely familiar with. Objectively, he’s heard of jealousy, of fearing to lose something you hold dear. Of wanting something that someone else has. He’s never quite cared about anyone or anything else enough to actually feel jealous. He likes to own things, true. That fills his lust for power and control.

Jealousy, he finds, is tied to a very different emotion.

When he sees Greyjoy out with Robb Stark, his throat tightens and his chest feels like all of his ribs are about to crunch in on his organs. He sees the easy way that Greyjoy hangs on to Stark, the bright smile and the happiness in his eyes.

Ramsay almost can’t stop the brief terror that jolts him, another unfamiliar sensation. _He likes being with him more than he likes being with you. What if he stops coming to see you because he likes Stark better? Because Stark is a better friend. Stark is nice, normal. Stark doesn’t hurt him; not like you do._

_Stark probably takes care of him, builds him up. Tries to make him a better person. What do you have to offer? Why would he even want to be near you?_

_He’s going to forget about you. You mean nothing._

These thoughts put him off his food almost immediately.

He doesn’t understand why he feels this way. Why the hell should he care who Theon hangs around with? Ramsay has his own crew, though all of them do happen to work for his father. They are all birds of a feather and Theon isn’t like any of them.

He’s different. He belongs to Ramsay. Even if Theon doesn’t know it.

And that’s the fucking problem, Ramsay supposes.

* * *

* * *

The night that he loses control completely, it’s because of that pesky feeling. Jealousy.

When Theon strolls into his dungeon, he nearly snaps. In his mind, all he can see is Greyjoy and Stark, Greyjoy and Stark. The idea of Theon leaving him is stuck in his mind on repeat and he can’t stop thinking about, hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

He’s fixating. He’s imagining what Robb Stark would sound like if Ramsay were to pull his stomach out through his mouth. Just shove his fist straight down his throat and tear out all his organs.

Theon acts like he can choose when to see Ramsay. Like he has a fucking choice to just ‘not feel’ like seeing him. It isn’t right because Ramsay owns him, Theon’s body belongs to him. He’s in control here, not Theon. When Theon walks through his dungeon door that night…well…Ramsay is already lost.

Every refusal Theon makes only drives him further into bloodlust, his mind unable to focus on anything other than hooking and hanging him. The more Theon fights, the more he yells, the further Ramsay goes over the edge of no return.

He’s going to do what he wants and no one is going to stop him. If he wants to see Theon’s skin rip open, he’s going to fucking see it.

When Theon says ‘no’ to the hooks in his flesh, screams his ridiculous safeword over being suspended, Ramsay only grows more aroused, uncontrollable. He wants Theon to suffer as terribly as he has these past twelve hours. He wants to hurt him. The more Theon says ‘no’ the more Ramsay sneers in cruel glee. It only spurs him on.

He wants to see him beg and cry and plead with Ramsay to let him down, that he’ll behave if Ramsay just makes the pain stop.

Only. He doesn’t beg. Something miraculous happens.

Theon falls into it. Theon gives in to the pain. He allows himself to be swallowed whole by the agony, falls so deep into it that his mind and body go into overhaul. It’s breathtaking and Ramsay feels like he’s watching something beautiful.

He’s done this. He’s given this to Theon. This release from his body. Theon truly took the pain and became one with it. He’s never seen someone drop off the edge and fly, especially after being so unwilling. He’s heard about it, of course, but…

Ramsay can barely breathe, watching Theon hang there like a lost bird. He’s never wanted to keep someone, not with this intensity. He wants to keep him forever. He’ll take the impudence, the brashness, the inability to be completely subservient as long as Theon submits to the pain that Ramsay gives him, just like he is in this moment.

He’ll take it all. He wants those green eyes, those eyes that always flash with sarcasm and wounded pride. He wants that need for approval pointed at him and most of all he wants to know what Theon is doing when he’s not with him.

When Ramsay gets him out of the hooks, he can barely wait a moment longer to press his skin against Theon. To feel his heart, to know he’s still alive even after what Ramsay has done. He didn’t kill him, even though he had lost control.

When his mind starts to cool, his arousal tapering off to something manageable, Ramsay tells himself that he needs to take care of Theon. He can be good to him. He’ll have better control next time.

Theon is going to be his and nothing else is even an option.

Then of course, the little tease fucks off in terror. Again. 

* * *

* * *

Ramsay ends up asking Wolkan about it one night, after calling him in to put together a drug cocktail to wake up an unfortunate ‘guest’ in his father’s basement. He asks if he’s capable of being in a relationship, now that he’s had quite a few more years to get a better handle on himself. He wants to know, in Wolkan’s medical opinion, of course. He asks this with a sneering grin, loves making the man uncomfortable.

He’s been making Wolkan uncomfortable for nearly two decades and it never gets old. Wolkan’s like a second father; hell, he’s more of a father than Roose has ever been to Ramsay.

Wolkan indeed looks ill at the question, no doubt wondering what poor soul Ramsay has landed his twisted affections upon. “You have better control now than you did at eighteen, even better than when you were twenty-five. You’re capable,” Wolkan says slowly, picking his words carefully as he fills his syringe. “But you have to be aware, like I’ve always told you. You have good a cognizance, but make a greater effort to remember what is unrealistic fantasy and what is realistic desire.”

The doctor pauses then, squirting the syringe. He turns his dark gaze on Ramsay once again, asking, “Does this person…like being harmed? Are they alright with how you are? Do they even know?”

Ramsay snorts in an unrefined manner that causes Wolkan to scowl. He’s tried to teach Ramsay about manners; another part of their curriculum over the years. “Well, they keep coming back, so they must like something. But not the pain. No, they don’t like that.”

“Which pleases you, of course.”

“Don’t act like you have to ask, Doc.”

“Just please. Behave. For me. I’ve worked countless years to keep you out of prison.” Wolkan pauses, needle pressing against the skin of the unconscious man strapped to the table. “On another note, this one right here is low on blood. He won’t last long after I wake him up.”

Ramsay smiles, the grin of a wolf. He rubs his cheek absently and isn’t surprised to see it come away red. “That’s fine, I’m almost done with him anyway. Got what we needed. Tell Locke that we’ll need the bone saw down here next.”

* * *

* * *

When Theon comes back, he comes back with a wrathful fury, eyes blazing.

That’s fine; Ramsay is pissed off too. It’s been a month since Theon left and here he is, walking in like he still owns this room. Ramsay’s lip almost curls at his own thought; Theon never owned this room, but he does belong in it.

Myranda is an effective tool in this moment. He can see the way that her presence stings Theon, so he decides to play it up, drill that pain in deeper.

That night, something unexpected happens. Something Ramsay could not have anticipated.

As he punishes Theon with what is probably a fantastic blowjob from Myranda, he soaks in the fury in those beautiful eyes. He watches the unwilling pleasure rise in Theon, the way he tries to not participate. The way he wants no part of the woman on his cock, the way his eyes stay glued to Ramsay, spitting venom.

Distantly, he realizes that he’s missed him. He hadn’t thought Theon would stay away for so long. The longer Theon stayed gone, the more Ramsay wanted him. He missed his stupid mouth. He missed how well Theon performed with him on the play platform and made him look like the best master in the fucking world. No one would have guessed that Theon is actually a complete brat of a sub, one that requires being wrangled like a crocodile.

He missed the way Theon would flush over dirty, humiliating talk. The way that goddamn fat cock of his would get hard and he would try to hide it from Ramsay. _Hah_. Hide that thing? It’s flattering, in a way, to see how Ramsay affects him.

It’s strange, getting aroused watching someone else get pleasured in his dungeon. He starts out by watching Myranda blow Theon with detached irritation. But the more he watches, the more turned on he gets, seeing that pissed off look in Theon’s eye, his unwillingness.

So, when he joins them, he doesn’t expect to feel a wave of emotion hit him when Theon grabs him by the neck. He doesn’t expect the world to disappear in flames when Theon presses his lips against his.

* * *

* * *

Somehow, this madness all leads to now. This moment with the pair of them wearing each other’s names on their wrists. To Ramsay parking his car in Theon’s lot. To Theon looking at him with this mix of shame and apprehension and want from the passenger seat just before he steps out of the car.

With the slow measured steps of a predator, Ramsay follows Theon into the apartment complex, eyes tracing his spine. Theon leads him upstairs to his apartment, a very slight limp in his step. Ramsay smiles behind his back, can’t help but be pleased, knowing Theon will be feeling him for days to come.

Theon’s apartment isn’t posh or fancy and the guy himself is a bit of a slob. Ramsay supposes he can’t judge; he’s always had maids his whole life, living with his father anyway. He barely remembers life before that, with his mother. Before she dropped him off like bad news at Roose’s.

He prefers to wipe her from his mind anyhow. Just a distant ghost with a face he can barely recall.

Theon is picking at the skin around his nails, leaning against the counter in his kitchen. Lanky and strangely forlorn, now that he’s home. Ramsay wonders if he’s embarrassed to have him here. It is a mess, after all.

“Make yourself at home,” Theon finally says, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m going to shower. I feel like I’m covered in grime. I’m probably a biohazard at this point.”

“Whatever, I like how you smell,” Ramsay mutters, more to himself than Theon. He likes the way Theon smells of sweat, suffering, and sex. It’s a physical scent and Ramsay has always been interested in how the body changes with pain.

Theon pulls a face at him, finally a normal reaction. He’d been a little subdued, the closer they got to his place. A little distant, his eyes faraway as Ramsay drove. Perhaps Theon does regret it all, perhaps he’s having second thoughts now that he’s had time to actually think.

Which is too bad, if that’s the case.

As Theon disappears into his bathroom, Ramsay sits down on his couch and flips through a few notepads that he finds strewn about. He runs his fingers over what must be Theon’s wild scrawl, examining his half-written thoughts for tunes and lyrics. Theon is good at channeling hurt, at turning it into emotional lyrics that his fans most likely eat up.

Being the partial cause of that pain brings a smirk to Ramsay’s face, a slight curl of desire in his groin.

It isn’t a surprise that many songs seem to point to Ramsay and Theon’s anguish over submission and his need to be consumed. There are so many references to drowning and Ramsay vaguely wonders if Theon thinks about death often.

He’s heard the song ‘ _Phantom_ ’ on the radio. A dark, resentful song filled with broken pride. Based on this notebook, it appears to be the first song Theon ever wrote about him. Touching, like running a blade across someone’s throat.

It’s strange, reading through Theon’s bold handwriting. Seeing blatant thoughts and feelings laid bare. Ramsay can’t claim to know Theon’s feelings; he can only read what Theon’s body tells him. That and whatever shit pours out of Theon’s mouth.

And Theon says a lot of shit. It’s all smoke and mirrors with the guy, trying to hide what he really feels and what he really wants. Theon’s body likes the fear, but his mind is ashamed. It’s so hard to make sure that he doesn’t push Theon too hard, because he loves terrifying him and degrading him, but he also doesn’t want him to leave.

His eyes cut over to the bathroom door, the sound of the shower running a low droning sound.

Theon’s been in the bathroom for twenty minutes already and Ramsay is getting antsy over his absence. Briefly, his mind tells him, _what if he’s slitting his wrists? What if he already did it? Found a new way to leave you, huh?_

The idea is absolutely stupid, but still he feels momentarily staggered, standing up from his place on the couch. His mind swirls horribly, panic hitting his ribcage like a drum. He knows that he pushed Theon hard last night, but…but…he hasn’t pushed too hard, has he? With the abduction…and…the other thing?

Briefly, he hates how weak he is. In fact, he’s disgusted with himself. A younger version of himself would have been gleeful over the idea of Theon killing himself, but the younger version of himself also couldn’t appreciate the fine vintage of suffering and martyrdom that is Theon Greyjoy.

Nor would he have appreciated true ownership.

The younger version of himself wouldn’t have had the patience to understand how amazing it feels to dole out horror and then be the hero at the same time. The way Theon hates and hates him, yet drowns in his desire for how _awful_ Ramsay makes him feel.

It’s sick and it’s wrong, Wolkan would absolutely agree, but Ramsay is going to hold onto Theon like a prized trophy that he never intends to let go. In fact, if he could keep him in a golden display case, he would, but can’t. How he would love to prove that damn old man wrong. He’d love to proudly show him how well he’s taken care of Theon, that he’s perfectly capable of taking care of a human being too, not just hounds and horses.

Fuck the fact that his father would scoff at the fact that he’s found himself mad over another man. His father has probably figured it all out already anyway. Ramsay has never truly cared about the gender of the body that suffers for him. In his world, the art of suffering must be fine-tuned; Theon has suffered for years, wallowed in self-loathing and guilt. That sort of suffering cannot easily be taught, it’s made.

Everyone suffers differently, the way they grow from suffering also shapes them differently. Some people draw into themselves, others become aggressive, wearing bad habits like armor. Theon Greyjoy grew up in a household with bullies that he loved because they were blood, despite the fact that he was treated poorly despite his affection.

The result left him aroused when someone else took on the cruel father figure, one who was all too happy to degrade and control him, all while praising him for being such a good boy. Ramsay is fine playing daddy; he knows all about daddy issues, after all.

He’s got a father that never quite accepted him for what he is. First, as the troublesome bastard son that had been pawned off on him. Then, the troublesome bastard son who also happened to have downright criminal and deviant proclivities due to having a few personality disorders.

Ramsay goes over to the bathroom and twists the knob, frowning when he finds that it’s locked. The little shit. Thinks he can just lock him out? Ramsay owns his fucking body; Theon signed the contract. That’s solid proof. An ugly feeling coils in his belly as he steps back from the door, considering.

Well. This can be fixed. Theon just needs more training.

Ramsay goes into Theon’s closet and grabs a cheap hanger one would get from the dry cleaners. He refrains from sniffing one of Theon’s shirts, despite the fact that he does want to inhale him in. He goes back to the door and pops open the lock with the hanger, turning the knob successfully.

With the door open, he can feel the humidity from the heat of the shower. He hears nothing but the spray of water against the tiles. He stands there silently, certain that Theon did not hear the door unlock over the loud spray of water.

Theon has no idea that he’s no longer alone.

Something ugly twists in Ramsay belly, the predator that wants to sneak up and ensnare prey. Theon is rather trusting, despite the locked door. As if that would actually keep Ramsay out. How simple it would be to whip back the shower curtain and snap his neck.

But, where’s the fun in that? He wouldn’t do it, not to Theon, but the fantasy is momentarily entertaining and Ramsay’s dick twitches at the thought.

Creeping forward silently, Ramsay quietly slides the curtain back slightly and take a moment to drink in Theon’s naked form. The relief Ramsay feels at seeing him unharmed is moronic, but he feels like his heart can stop feeling tight. Theon’s got his eyes closed, head hanging as the spray pours down his upper back. His hands are pressed against the wall beneath the shower head. Ramsay wishes there were scars on his back. He takes a moment to fantasize on what sort of marks he would put there.

He nearly gets caught up in his own bloody fantasy before he realizes he needs to actually _do_ something now that he’s gone through the effort to get in here. He doesn’t bother taking his clothes off aside from his watch, which he places beside Theon’s on the counter. He steps into the water and quickly grabs Theon, slamming him into the wall with his body.

Theon yells in shock and tries to elbow him, but Ramsay blocks it easily. Theon struggles violently until Ramsay presses his lips to his ear. “Are you trying to wash me away,” he sneers lowly, pinning Theon’s front into the tile.

The spray beats down on them and Theon thrashes again, growling under his breath. His hands come up and press against the wall, trying to push away from having the whole line of his body molded to the tile. His biceps flex as he tries to push away, but he’s not strong enough.

He’s got an athletic frame, slim muscle and long limbs. Theon is strong, but he isn’t as strong as Ramsay, which Ramsay finds ridiculously enjoyable.

“That door was locked for a reason, asshole; I wanted privacy,” Theon growls, face mashed against the tile, Ramsay’s hands firmly keeping him in place.

“You don’t need privacy,” Ramsay says flatly, uninterested in that particular need of Theon’s.

Fuck, he loves when Theon struggles.

Desire is a strange thing for him. It’s pointed, aggressive. Bloodthirsty. Consuming. Words normal people don’t tend to attribute to desire, the way violence isn’t often tied hand in hand with want and lust. As Theon struggles, Ramsay’s mind first goes to the path of least resistance; forcing Theon to submit, letting him fight against him until he’s exhausted, until his body is shaking with effort and despair.

That image causes sharp, deadly heat to build in Ramsay’s belly and he begins to harden against what is _his_.

Keeping Theon pinned, his right hand slides down Theon’s wet body. Theon shivers violently, exhaling shakily. Ramsay’s belt buckle is probably digging into Theon’s lower back painfully, so Ramsay presses against him harder, hoping it will leave a bruise.

Theon curses when his hand finds its destination between his slick cheeks.

Ramsay rubs the pads of his pointer and middle finger against Theon’s swollen entrance, still puffy from use. Theon stiffens, exhaling shakily as Ramsay holds him against the wall. “Having you been touching yourself back here? Trying to clean my cum out of your hot cunt?”

Theon’s face reddens and his eyes are squeezed shut.

Gently, he circles the sensitive flesh, watching every shift of expression on Theon’s face. God, he just wants to tongue his fucking eyes and bite his red cheekbones. Ramsay just wants to eat him, it’s the only way he can describe how strongly he feels when he looks at him. His emotions are too intense and he doesn’t know how to cope with them. Ramsay wants to climb inside his flesh and wear him like a bloody cape.

Violence is always easier, it comes naturally. Emotions…are foreign and uncomfortable.

He’s had years to learn how to control himself better. Controlling his violent urges, anyway. But he never asked Wolkan how to deal with…this. It’s terrifying. Consuming. He feels consumed and he feels lost, but he _can’t_ be lost. He has to stay in control.

“Maybe next time I ought to plug you up. Maybe I need to make you walk around for a whole day with it up in there. No one will know that I’ve filled you, but you will know. You’ll feel me in you all day, won’t have any choice but to think of me fucking into you, fucking moaning in your ears, cuz you’ve been such a good boy to daddy’s cock.”

Theon’s body is shaking against his, anxious and submissive-but-not-quite. “You’re the worst,” Theon says in that thick tone of his, like his tongue is too big to talk around.

He tries to close his legs, but Ramsay kicks at his ankle to keep them spread, tsk-ing at him. Ramsay sticks his tongue in Theon’s ear and rubs his two fingers up and down Theon’s cleft roughly, allowing his thumb, ring finger, and pinky to dig into the flesh of Theon’s cheeks as he does so. He effectively has Theon completely in hand.

The water spraying down on them is still hot enough, and Theon growls in his chest, still indignant over his private time being interrupted so physically. “Be still,” Ramsay hisses in his ear, rubbing his puckered entrance again, massaging it. He knows Theon’s sore, but he’s also a tough bastard. “Let me in. Now.”

He grinds Theon’s face into the tile harder, just as a warning.

With a frustrated sigh, Theon exhales harshly. Ramsay admires the way that he physically tries to relax for him, his sore entrance giving around his fingers. “Good boy,” he whispers again as his fingers slide right in.

Theon whines miserably, ashamed.

Humming low in his throat, Ramsay presses his chest to Theon’s back, wants to be close as he searches around inside of him, feels his warm insides. There isn’t much left of his release left inside from last night; Theon’s either pushed it out or dug it out, but some of it is still there.

Just the thought of Theon trying to push out his cum is arousing. The idea that his claiming leaves Theon feeling so humiliated and degraded. _Ugh_. He’d love to watch Theon finger himself, finger his well-used hole, still gaping from Ramsay’s rough use.

_He’d let Theon clean himself out, then he’d fuck it all back in, holding him down while he screams…_

_Careful…_

Twisting his wrist a bit, adding a third finger, Ramsay nibbles the back of Theon’s neck. He’s looking for the place that makes Theon groan with need, the small little spot that he can rub and slam into until Theon’s spurts all over his white shower wall.

When he finds it, Theon stiffens and his hands clench against the tile, his jaw tightening as he tries to not give away how much he likes how that feels. Ramsay just enjoys drinking in all the delicious noises that Theon keeps trying to hide.

Because it’s obvious, he’s always trying to hide something.

“You can never wash me away, you know. You can’t scrub me out of your skin. I’m already in your veins,” he hisses into Theon’s ear, drilling his fingers in once more, driving into his prostate harder. This makes a squelching sound, loud and filthy.

Theon gasps, this beautiful, broken sound that drives Ramsay mad.

Ramsay hates how much he wants this. Hates how careful he has to be, can’t believe he finds himself being thankful for all the training and time spent with Wolkan. The doctor had been relentless when he had been a teenager, trying to help him contain the monster inside.

He digs his fingers around, stroking Theon’s insides. He’s careful, he’s oh so careful about not scratching him or just _ripping and pulling his insides out._ Exhale. Inhale harder. He buries his face into the crook of Theon’s neck and sinks his teeth in, worries the skin, loves the way he tastes.

It’s a terrifying thing, to realize he adores Theon. He’s so ridiculously fond of him, loves how his body reacts to everything he does _to_ him.

Theon is cursing under his breath, it’s a habit. He calls Ramsay a lot of things that technically aren’t acceptable, but Ramsay finds it endearing because for the most part Theon lets him do as he pleases. A few muttered curses aren’t going to stop Ramsay and Theon is well aware by now.

His boy has a fucking filthy mouth and he wants to see that filthy mouth wrapped around his cock, choking on it. But first-

Ramsay runs his tongue down Theon’s spine, loves feeling every bump in his vertebrae. Briefly recalls what a spine looks like outside of a body, covered in gore. Images of skin splitting at the seams under his tongue, as if his own flesh is a blade cutting Theon open, flashes in his mind and it’s this visceral, bloody spray in his head.

He can almost taste copper on his tongue as Ramsay makes his way down.

Theon is shaking, fear and want always at war inside of him. It’s one of those things that caught Ramsay’s eye about him; that furious green glare of Theon’s, indignant and pissed off at being treated like a dog mixed in with humiliated desire.

Ramsay sinks his teeth into the flesh of Theon’s ass, digging in hard enough to leave toothmarks.

Without a second thought, he pries open his cheeks and shoves his tongue inside him, beside his busy fingers.

Theon goes wordless, making sounds of surprise and want as he tries to move away in confusion. Ramsay holds him still, both hands tight on his ass, holding him open as he buries his face in between Theon’s flesh. Theon’s body is electrified with every press of his tongue, legs becoming shaky.

He presses the flat of his tongue to that sensitive muscle when he slides his fingers out, laving it like ice cream. He kisses it, sucks at it, enjoying the desperate sounds tearing out of Theon’s throat, sounds that have the quality of being torn out by a knife. Equally pained and despairing, trademark Theon, filled with self-loathing for getting what he fucking wants.

Fucking naughty cunt.

He eats him out loudly, getting as much saliva in him as possible, Theon muttering under his breath the whole while, hips jerking. Ramsay presses his fingers against the small strip of flesh behind Theon’s sac and presses a bit, stimulating his prostate externally while he fucks him with his tongue.

Theon can’t contain his moans now, the way he can barely stand.

“R-Ramsay…” he breathes out and Ramsay stills, because he’s not sure he’s ever heard Theon call him by his first name.

And certainly not like this.

“What?” He says it harshly, trying to hide his pleasure at what Theon had done.

“Just…do it. Stop with the teasing.”

“Do _what?_ ”

“Don’t…don’t make me say it,” Theon says quietly, humiliation staining his voice.

Ramsay pulls away a little, panting, staring at the madly flexing muscles of Theon’s back. “You’d better say it or I’ll knock your brains out. With my fist.”

He imagines fucking him so hard that he bleeds, that he rips open around his dick. Blood would stream down his legs and Theon would be screaming through it all. Fucking beautiful and agonized. Suffering just for Ramsay. His mouth goes dry for a moment, just thinking about it.

_No. No I can’t do that. He’d never want to let me fuck him again._

_Who says he needs to want it? He belongs to me. I can just take what I want._

_But I want him to want me. I want him to want me for me._

_God, you’re fucking weak._

Moments are passing with only the sound of the water bouncing off the tiles. “I don’t hear you,” Ramsay snaps, digging his fingers in hard, hard enough to bruise and mar.

“I’m not saying it.” Stubborn to the awful end. Theon Greyjoy, take a bow for the ladies and gents.

Red flashes across Ramsay’s vision. It’s alright to say ‘no’ a few times, but Ramsay has given him more than one chance to fix his answer. He can’t let this pass completely. “Fine.” He says flatly, eyes narrowed, water dripping from his black hair. “I guess it’s a fisting you’re after, what else could it be that you want?”

“Wait- _what?!_ ” Theon squawks as Ramsay flattens his hand, curling his thumb tightly under his four fingers, pressing it against Theon’s entrance.

With a hungry curl to his lips, Ramsay starts pressing in harder, Theon’s body rejecting the stretch like he knew it would. It must hurt like a bitch too, trying to take in a whole hand. Theon twists at the hip and swats him, hitting his nose hard.

For a minute, Ramsay blinks in shock, sitting back on his heels. _Did he really just hit me?_

Theon is trying to squirm away, ocean eyes salty and dark with anger. “Motherfucker, no! You have a dick; use it!”

Ramsay feels heat building in his nose and realizes that he’s bleeding. He spits once he tastes blood in his mouth, staring up at Theon. On one hand, he’s impressed. On the other, he’s fucking livid. “How do you want to be punished for that little act?”

Lips twisting, hair wet, Theon glares down at him. “You’re not going to punish me; you’re going to fuck me, because that’s what you want. Even you can’t hide that hardon. And you’re going to fuck me with it, nice and hard because that’s also what you want, whether I like it or not.”

For a minute, Ramsay can’t quite think, the words meaningless. It’s a cruel trick and it bothers him that Theon can read him like that. He spits more blood out of his mouth and grins without teeth, lips tight. At this very moment he wants Theon more than he wants to punish him and Theon knows it.

Fuck. He’s got Ramsay’s number.

With pissed off hands, Ramsay unbuckles his belt and unzips furiously. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Of course not. Do your worst,” Theon hisses, turning to the face the wall again, presenting his ass submissively, like a bitch in heat.

The arch of his spine is delicious and Ramsay’s mouth waters, his belly heated with arousal. He’d love to turn him inside out. He stands up to press up behind Theon, biting his shoulder hard enough to make it bleed. Theon grunts in pain and Ramsay takes his own cock in hand, rubs it up and down the cleft of Theon’s presented ass.

“You filthy fucking girl. So greedy-” he pauses here to groan as he works the head of his cock in, “for my cock in you. You’re made for taking it. Made for my dick filling you up.”

Theon hisses in discomfort, face twisted and Ramsay takes it in hungrily. It will get better for Theon, so Ramsay enjoys his misery where he can. When he breaches him, he remains with just the tip inside, gently teasing Theon with it, small little motions that have Theon pressing back, trying to take him in.

Ramsay chuckles and pulls away whenever Theon does it, trying to prolong his need. Eventually, when even he can’t stand it anymore, he slams in hard, causing them both to cry out. He stays pressed inside, balls deep, his arm locked around Theon’s waist. Trembling.

Theon’s like fire inside, wet and hot. Tight and fluttering around his cock, milking it. Feels so fucking good and momentarily Ramsay is reduced to animal thoughts and not much else. The urge to fuck and claim is too strong to compete with, to tie down.

Grunting, Ramsay doesn’t give him much time to adjust; this is meant to be punishment, of sorts. His clothed stomach presses against Theon’s naked lower back, his shirt soaked. “Is this what you wanted? To be taken like the dog you are?”

Theon is pressing his forehead against the tile, teeth clenched hard as Ramsay pulls out and slams back in. “You know it is.”

“Slut,” Ramsay snaps, stepping back a foot, taking Theon’s hips with him so that Theon has to bend forward with a flat back, hands still pressed against the wall for leverage.

He may have called Theon a dog, but Ramsay isn’t much better in the way he humps into Theon fast and hard, panting, hands gripping his hips viciously. The water makes the sound of their bodies connecting even louder, more sloppy, disgusting and hot.

Ramsay’s seen dogs breed, he’s grown up with a kennel at his home. His stomach flips when he thinks of what it would be like if he had a knot, like a dog, if he could swell and stuff it into his bitch, work it into Theon while his boy whines for it with his sloppy cunt. He’d be able to keep his cock in Theon for hours, keeping him full of his seed. He’d have Theon cumming on repeat, his hard cock constantly pressing into his needy insides.

Theon wouldn’t want anything aside from having Ramsay cock in him all the time, slutty and gaping for him. His seed dripping down his thighs, out of his greedy cunt. _Fucking hell._

Theon’s tight, but he’s also fucking sloppy and Ramsay feels himself getting close to the edge, his mind filled with various disgusting things involving Theon. Desire turning in violence and back again, blood and cum. Even piss, he’ll not rule out wanting to mark his territory in that way, someday.

_Mine, mine, he’s all mine._

“I’m gonna…so good…it shouldn’t feel like this,” Theon gasps, his hand fisting his own cock in time with Ramsay’s erratic thrusting. “Why does it feel like this?”

Knocking Theon’s hand off his cock, Ramsay wraps his hand around the fat fucking thing and takes complete control of Theon’s body, fucking and stroking him. “Cuz you’re mine,” Ramsay barely chokes out, close to his own release.

He doesn’t actually feel coherent, more beast than man.

They lose their footing, slipping on the porcelain with a particularly hard thrust. They crash down with snorts of laughter, mixed in with the pain in their knees. Ramsay feels his balls tightening as he remains kneeling behind Theon, who is now on his knees as well. “Here it comes, baby girl, ready for it? Ready to be filled by a real man?”

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” Theon says lustily, “Just do your job and make me cum!”

Without much finesse, Ramsay slams in one more time. His gut twists with his orgasm as it rips through him violently and he groans low in his chest as he releases. Ramsay grinds his cockhead into Theon’s prostate, imagines his cum pouring into him, filling up his guts. Distantly, he can feel Theon’s cock pulsing in his hand, the fucking monster spurting white all over.

They stay locked together for a few seconds, both breathing heavily under the spray of water.

“The water is f…fucking…cold,” Theon says finally, hoarsely.

Seems the hot water has run out. No surprise.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re an ass. Take me to bed,” Theon shivers, waspish. He pulls off Ramsay’s cock with a wince, thick white seed oozing out. “And do something about your wet clothes. Couldn’t strip before invading my personal space, huh?”

Ramsay briefly entertains the idea of forcing Theon to stay under the cold spray, just for ordering Ramsay to do something. But. But. His overwhelming drive for sex is in control here for once.

They end up in bed and Ramsay pulls Theon on top of him, to sit on his cock. He watches every delicious flinch, every wince as he slides right back in. “It’s…too much this way,” Theon hisses, looking like he wants to run from the pain, sore and more full at this angle.

“Aww baby,” he purrs up at him, voice low with arousal, “is my chubby hurting you?”

“You know it fucking is.” Sea-green eyes narrow at him wrathfully, though Theon’s body waits, doesn’t presume to get up and off of him.

He’s waiting for Ramsay to give him permission. Pleasure rolls down Ramsay’s spine, pleased that his boy is coming to heel in some aspects. Still, can’t let Theon know how pleased he is, not yet anyway.

With a scoff, Ramsay rolls them over so that they’re in good old missionary and eventually, Theon relaxes into it, sinking bonelessly into the sheets as Ramsay drills into him, tonguing his face. He licks the tear tracks on Theon’s cheeks, nibbles at his lips, fucks his throat with his tongue as he fills him with his cock. HIs nose is still bleeding, slowly, dripping crimson droplets onto Theon's skin.

Stained, visceral. 

His hips are cradled between Theon’s thighs, which are curled around him tightly as Ramsay slowly grinds his hips in circles, less rushed this time. It’s stupidly vanilla and Ramsay is grossing himself out with it all. At the same time, he doesn’t care, he just wants.

Theon curses things under his breath, moans barely hissing through his clenched teeth. He’s got this way about him, how he tries to hide his own enjoyment, like he’s trying to hide from Ramsay. Which is foolish; he belongs to Ramsay, there is absolutely no reason to hide what he likes.

In fact, Ramsay finds it offensive.

His digs his fingers into Theon’s hair and cranks his head back hair, pressing his teeth against Theon’s jawline. With a low voice, he says huskily, “You’re being awfully quiet. Am I not doing it right?”

_I dare you to tell me I’m not._

Theon’s lips twists as he tries to get comfortable in Ramsay’s bruising grasp on his head. “How would I know? I’ve never taken it up the ass before, aside from with you.”

_And you’re never going to have the chance to try it with anyone else, now that you’re my fucking property._

While Ramsay is pleased by Theon’s admission, he still presses, now looking to see fear enter those eyes. He rolls his hips, stroking inside of that wet heat, letting his blunt head seek Theon’s pleasure spot. “You look like you’re busy rating my performance in your head, instead of moaning like the cumdumpster I know you are.”

Theon bucks his hips, red on his cheekbones. His hair falls over his pillow, giving him this filthy angelic look. “Maybe I don’t want to inflate your stupid ego, you maniac.”

Sitting back onto his knees, Ramsay pulls Theon’s hips up into his lap, sneering down at him. “I don’t think that’s it at all. I think you’re getting bored. I think you want a different position. Maybe you want something that doesn’t involve me up your needy cunt.”

The tight ring of muscle around Ramsay’s cock clenches hard, squeezing his dick mercilessly. His eyes roll back briefly and he bites his lip to keep from letting out a moan. Theon is staring up at him with this cocky, shit-eating expression now and Ramsay wants to knock it off his face, flushing.

He hates and loves that expression.

“Jeez. You could have just asked nicely to have me fuck you, you know,” Theon smiles, the smile that women adore. The smile on the local magazines and _Ramsay can’t believe Theon’s here with him, looking him like this._ “I’d be gentle.”

Heat rushes to Ramsay’s face and his cock twitches inside of Theon. The other man laughs lightly, tilting his hips up, taking Ramsay deeper into his welcoming heat. God, this piece of fuckmeat pisses him off! “You’ll do no such thing,” he snarls weakly, slamming in hard enough to cause pain, wanting to wipe that smugness away.

A rough sound is forced out of Theon at this, sharp and pained. Cruel arousal builds in Ramsay’s groin, even as Theon schools the pain out of his features and plays with Ramsay’s nipples. “What’s wrong, afraid you might like it?” Theon teases hoarsely.

“You should be more afraid that I might fucking kill you,” Ramsay snaps, entertaining the thought.

Hands come up to the sides of his face and Theon grips him gently. The act causes Ramsay to slow his thrusts, curious to see what his insolent tramp is going to come up with next. It isn’t what he expects.

Theon’s staring up at Ramsay, eyes dilated and soft. With that sloppy grin in place, Theon whispers, “Kill me then.”

Ramsay stares into those eyes as he slowly thrusts in and out. Ramsay feels _fucking something_ in his chest. Whatever it is, his gut twists violently when those eyes flutter shut with a sigh, causing Ramsay to orgasm.

He’s panting, sweating. Theon’s staring up at him with wide eyes and Ramsay needs to stop whatever gross thing Theon is thinking in this exact moment. “Touch yourself,” he snaps at Theon, suddenly feeling exposed, because what if Theon _saw_.

Just watching Theon stroke that fat cock of his makes him hard again, causes him to swell inside of Theon even though he had just come. Theon orgasms while stroking himself and Ramsay slams him through it, balls tight and swollen once more.

Theon laughs tiredly, his ring of muscle tightening around Ramsay briefly. He’s gorgeous, a sloppy wine drunk grin and pretty, dilated eyes. “Again? Going for stallion status?”

“Just breaking your cunt in,” Ramsay hisses thickly, somewhat embarrassed by his own libido. Embarrassed by how much he wants him. “Want to make sure you knows who owns it.”

They go at it until they physically can’t anymore.

* * *

* * *

Sometime after, Ramsay looks down at the sleeping form beside him, eyes the bruises, teeth marks, and scratches that adorn Theon’s body. All proof that he belongs to Ramsay, every mark a symbol of Ramsay’s affection, the affection that eats him from the inside out with more than a little tinge of madness.

He’s never going to let him go.

It’s something he feels in every fiber of his being. This knowledge, deep in his dark, vicious heart.

Ramsay’s fingers begin to shake as he wonders how that would pan out, if Theon tried to reject him now that Ramsay has had a taste of him. His mouth goes dry and he swallows, vision blurring slightly as a dark image surfaces in his mind.

Ramsay is well aware that what he feels is not healthy. He’s cognizant, as Wolkan loves to say. But, at least Ramsay is honest with himself even if he can’t be honest with other human beings. He knows that if Theon were to leave him again, he would do something unforgivable.

He’d drag him back. He would force him back kicking and screaming.

Then he’d probably kill him, because if Ramsay can’t have him, then no one else can. He feels his heartrate pick up, angry and hungry all at once. He’d lose his mind, he’d fucking crack if Theon left. He’s had a taste of how good it can be, how he can have human affection while still having the pain, control, and horror. He’s ready to fucking tear his own face off at the very thought of being without Theon.

The voracity of this emotion is soul-sucking and Ramsay wants no part of it. He wishes he could just throw it away, wishes he could take a knife and dig out these feelings.

Theon _belongs_ to Ramsay and Ramsay _wants_ to belong to Theon. He’d much rather have Theon alive and breathing. As much as the idea of torturing Theon to death arouses Ramsay, it fills him with a strange sense of loss, because death is so permanent. He can harm Theon forever, but he can only kill him once.

_Restraint, I have restraint, I can control myself, he hasn’t left me, he’s right here, don’t think violent thoughts, don’t think of tearing his throat open with your teeth while he begs your forgiveness. He’s not going to leave you ever again. He’s chosen you._

It’s upsetting and Ramsay finds himself trying to calm his breathing, feeling his throat tighten with emotion. It’s so confusing, being murderous and filled with lust all at once when it’s over his most valuable possession.

A possession he cares for with a delirious fervor.

Shit. He’s fucking losing it.

There’s a loud inhale that startles Ramsay out of his thoughts. It appears his restlessness and erratic breathing has woken Theon.

“What are you thinking about?” Theon asks sleepily, his soft sea-green eyes good enough to fall into.

Ramsay forces a slight smile on his face, tries to hide his thoughts. “You, of course.”

It isn’t a lie.

The lie is that Theon has no idea that a monster is grinning down at him in his bed, wearing the face of a man.

* * *

* * *

_Shortly after the debacle with the girl slitting her wrists, Ramsay’s father brings him to the locked room beneath the Dreadfort, their home, not the club. His father pauses just outside the door, still as stone as he turns his icy gaze upon Ramsay. “One of my men has betrayed me.”_

_This is boring. Ramsay’s face twists in sarcastic confusion, his expression screaming ‘what does this have to do with me’. “Okay. That’s unfortunate.”_

_Roose calmly backhands him, emotionlessly. His face doesn’t even change, nor does his heartrate. “Keep your tongue in check, boy. I’m giving you a chance to prove your worth to me.”_

_“Right now?”_

_“Right now, Ramsay.”_

_The door swings open with a screech of metal, revealing a man sitting in a chair. Correction; he’s chained to the chair. The man is perhaps in his mid-forties and his eyes are wide with terror as he looks at Roose and Ramsay standing in the doorway._

_Ramsay’s nose flares with instant arousal as he inhales sharply, the blatant terror exciting him._

_There are other men sitting in the room, waiting. Locke waves at Ramsay with a snide grin from the far wall. Ben Bones shrugs his shoulders in the corner. “He talked. We know who he told now. It wasn’t hard. He’s got loose lips.”_

_Roose inclines his head. “Good. Clear the room. You are all dismissed.”_

_The men leave quietly, their eyes lingering on Ramsay as they pass him, intrigued by his presence. Locke claps Ramsay on the shoulder and winks. When they are all gone, Ramsay follows his father into the small, white tiled room. There are rust colored stains on the floor and all sorts of devious instruments sit on the table nearby._

_“You have my attention,” Ramsay says carefully, mouth going dry as he tries to keep the violent thoughts racing through his mind from taking over. “Why am I here, father?”_

_Roose’s thin lips turn into a deathly, skull like grin. “He has outlived his use. You may do whatever you like to him.”_

_Something stutters in Ramsay’s chest, maybe that rotted organ other people call a heart. He’s never really considered the idea that he has a heart, but right now he’s feeling it, he’s feeling his heart clench painfully with a need so sharp it hurts. “…what?”_

_His father gestures to the tools, to the room. “He betrayed me. I have no use for traitors. Do what you want with him; just don’t leave him alive when you’re done.”_

_Roose turns to leave the room, but he pauses just outside the door. “Oh, and Ramsay.”_

_“Yes, father?” He’s nearly panting with excitement now, hands shaking wildly._

_“There’s a place for you in my world,” His father says lowly, intelligent eyes taking in Ramsay’s current state. “This is that place. I’ve waited a long time for you to fill these shoes. Do well here and you will never be without those bloodstained fantasies that you crave. I’ll even let you take over the club, in a few years. When you're twenty-one, maybe.”_

_Without another word, the door slams shut behind him, leaving Ramsay to his whirling thoughts. He turns his gaze to the human in the chair and the man begins to beg him to let him go, to set him free. Ramsay nearly laughs, but he’s too caught up, red beginning to fill his vision._

_All he sees is disgusting, sweating meat. Meat shouldn’t beg. Meat exists to bleed._

_These visions…these thoughts. Wolkan has worked for years to try and keep Ramsay’s violent impulses under control. Now his father wants him to let loose, at least, in this room. On this piece of disgusting meat._

_A shudder wracks his body as visions of skinning the meat alive while it screams fills his head. Plucking out its eyes and squishing them between his fingers. Blood rushes south and his cock begins to fill with blood. His body aches with need._

_In the end, his unrestrained hunger and excitement are his undoing._

_There is no method to his madness, his bloodlust. He’s never been given a disposable piece of meat before. He stabs, hacks and slashes. Cuts and digs around inside of the flesh with his bare hands as the meat screams in agony. He hacks off its limbs and loves the way blood gets everywhere._

_The meat has strong skin, so it isn’t easy to simply tear it off, but Ramsay loves the challenge. There’s no one here to stop him, he can go as far as he pleases. This…this is true freedom._

_In his excitement, it’s over so fast. He’s covered in blood and the lump of flesh that was once a man simply leaks. It’s a shame that the meat’s organs gave out in roughly an hour. Though, perhaps Ramsay had gone too far, trying to shove the meat’s kidney down its own throat. It did stop breathing sometime after that._

_Ramsay sighs, palms his bursting erection and hisses. Next time, he’ll be more patient. He will learn how to draw out pain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Holy cow, this is a monster chapter. I considered splitting it into two chapters, but I felt that Ramsay needed to be contained in one POV chapter. He's extremely difficult to write, wow. Hopefully I did okay.
> 
> For the next chapter, it probably won't be out until the end of next week. I'm in a competition all this weekend and then there is the holiday week, so the next chapter will probably take some time. I'm thinking Sunday instead of Friday. Cheers.
> 
> Anyway....kudos and comments are LOVED!!! *hugs and kisses all*


	17. Sobriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those belong to George R. R. Martin
> 
> **AN:** Hello! Sorry for the later update, but I did figure I wouldn't have this done until today anyway. In between my travel last weekend and the 4 day migraine this week and all the damn BBQ's and birthday parties, I finally got this finished this morning!

Theon jerks awake when a firm hand shakes him.

“Hey,” Ramsay is hissing quietly, “I just heard your front door open. Does someone have a key to your apartment?”

Ahh…what? Theon blinks awake, trying to push sleep out of his vision. His body is sore and stiff and his mind is still out of it. Someone is here? Is that what Ramsay is saying? Oh.

_Oh_. _Shit._ _This is not good._

“Hey, Theon, you here? You better not still be in bed.” A familiar voice and familiar footsteps, coming towards the bedroom.

Theon thinks he’s going to die. This cannot be happening. He sits up in bed, heart pounding, reaches his hand forward like that’s going to stop what is going to happen. Ramsay is here in his bed and Theon cannot look at him, knows Ramsay probably has an unpleasant expression on his face.

Theon doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to see the violence brewing there in wait.

The bedroom door opens up unceremoniously, revealing the shape of a man, just as Theon knew it would. Robb Stark is looking at them with wide blue eyes. To say he is shocked would have to be an understatement. He’s got nice cargo shorts on and a trim shirt, hair coifed nicely, mouth slightly agape. “What the hell?”

What does one say in a situation like this? “Hey…Robb…um…”

Red colors Robb’s face, anger starting to twist his strong features. “ _What_ the _hell_!”

Ramsay stiffens on the bed, sitting up sharply, ready for a fight. Swallowing thickly, Theon’s gaze cuts over to sneak a look at his…lover? Master? He’s not entirely sure what to call him, but Ramsay’s eyes go half-lidded, danger lurking there. “He has a key to your apartment?”

A wolf’s snarl shifts Robb’s face, aggressive and lean. “Theon, what the hell is going on here?”

Awkwardly, Theon scoots out of the bed, face red. He’s completely naked and Robb is losing his mind right before his very eyes. He grabs a pair of shorts off the ground, never mind that they are actually Ramsay’s and not his. They don’t fit well around the hips, but anything is better than nothing at this point and Theon is not traipsing across the room to his dresser butt naked. Not in this situation. “Robb, can we talk about this?”

Ramsay is on the edge of the bed, naked and unashamed, jaw clenched. “Why does he have a fucking key?”

“Because I’m his best friend,” Robb snaps at him, all teeth. He turns that blue gaze on Theon again, eyes drifting over the marks on his skin. “Theon, this is fucked up, even for you.”

Theon grabs Robb by the arm and drags him out of the bedroom, holding the shorts up with his free hand. Ramsay snarls from the bedroom, making to follow them out, but Theon knows he can’t have this conversation with them both growling at each other like fighting dogs.

Knowing he’s going to pay for it later, Theon holds his hand up towards Ramsay, taking in the aggressive inhales and exhales shifting his naked chest, the dangerous glint in his pale eyes as he stares Robb down. “You…ah…” Theon stares at Ramsay, lost and aghast. He’s going to get crucified for this, but it needs to be done. “Just. Stay in the room. For a minute. Please.”

Fury changes Ramsay’s face, outraged at his submissive telling him to _do_ something. Vaguely, Theon imagines him as a trained guard dog, mortified and confused by the fact that its owner isn’t letting it do its job to protect them from an outside threat.

Theon is going to pay for this. For good measure, he says, “I’m sorry. I need to talk to Robb.”

He shuts the bedroom door carefully, all under Robb careful, angry gaze. The moment the door clicks shut, Robb is at him like a dog on a bone. “Theon, there’s a dude in your bed.”

“About that-”

Robb is speaking over him. “Not just any dude. Ramsay Bolton. Is naked. In _your_ bed. I’m completely lost here, Theon.”

“So. It’s complicated…” Theon doesn’t even know where to start, anxiety tearing at him more so just by looking at his bedroom door, imagining the fury just beyond it.

“I fucking bet.” Robb is frowning at him, shaking his head. “You know, I totally expect to find you buried under groupies and drugs when I come over. I expect that. I don’t accept it, but I know it’s something you tend to do. But finding you in bed with a _fucking shady ass Bolton_ is…I have no words.”

Groaning miserably, Theon leans against the kitchen bar and rubs his neck awkwardly. “What do you want me to do, Robb?”

His best friend scowls and glances at Theon’s closed bedroom door. “I came to make sure you were alright and to make sure you remembered our extended trip that’s coming up.”

Oh, yeah. Theon hasn’t forgotten, he just hasn’t had time to think about it the past few days. Ramsay has kept him rather busy. “I remember. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Theon’s voice drops lower, hoping Ramsay won’t hear through the door.

Robb’s shoulders are tight, restrained. He walks to the front door to leave and pauses only to look Theon in the eye seriously and say, “This isn’t over, Theon. I just don’t want to have this conversation with him two feet away, sitting there like some sort of evil shadow.”

Theon gets that completely. It isn’t a conversation he wants to have at all, but he certainly doesn’t want to have it anywhere where Ramsay can hear. Theon nods his agreement and Robb walks out the front door with a pissed off air surrounding him, hackles still raised. The front door slams audibly, causing Theon to close his eyes and flinch, inhaling sharply.

There’s a soft whisper of warm air across the back of Theon’s neck, after a moment. Heart pounding, he turns and finds himself face to face with Ramsay. His heart nearly stops, blind fear ringing through him. Theon never even heard him exit the bedroom.

“You locked me in your room, like I’m a fucking child,” Ramsay says lowly, eyes blank.

He’s nearly expressionless and that’s a terrifying thing. Theon has slowly come to learn that expressionless means the exact opposite with Ramsay; it usually means he’s hiding something. Hurt or anger, it doesn’t really matter. It’s there, drifting under the surface. He’s terrifyingly good at masking his feelings.

Theon catches his breath and sighs. “I told you I’m sorry about that. You guys were going to get at each other’s throats if I didn’t separate you. I just…needed to get him out.”

A strong hand grips Theon’s shoulder, fingers tightening into tender places between neck and shoulder, digging in painfully. The fingers press in so hard that Theon sinks to his knees, gasping under the pressure point being hit. “You had no right to shut me out,” Ramsay says calmly, deadly, eyes watching Theon’s discomfort.

“I know.” Theon dares to look into those eyes and feels icy water rush over him, seeing the strange look there in those pale depths.

The emptiness there is stark. Like a vast wasteland of nothing. He’s never seen such a look before and it terrifies him on principal. Anything could be going on behind that mask, but the eyes are empty of it all, hiding true intention.

Or amplifying it.

The fingers grinding into his pressure point have gotten so painful that Theon hisses in agony, black dancing across his vision. “How are you going to punish me, then?”

The fingers jab in harder for a brief moment and Theon almost passes out, but then Ramsay steps away from him, still distant. “I don’t have time to do what you deserve. Not today. And even if I did…well…just be glad that I don’t have the time.”

Theon can only imagine the horrors that Ramsay is cooking up. “You know Robb is only a friend, right? Please tell me you understand that?”

Something slithers through those ghostly eyes. “I don’t fucking care.”

It’s a lie and they both know it.

After a moment, Ramsay’s eyes drift to the shorts that Theon is still wearing half undone. “Give me my pants. Yours are too tight on me.”

They switch shorts, Theon nervously and Ramsay with short, pissed off movements. Fully clothed, Ramsay strides towards the front door, hands clenching and unclenching. “I have work to do for my father today,” Ramsay snaps. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Theon isn’t sure if it’s better or worse if Ramsay leaves angry. Isn’t sure if the anger will abate or just fester, growing worse as the hours apart go by.

This has to be the worst morning ever. Theon can’t do anything right, it’s like a series of bad events and they all just keep snowballing. “Ah. About that. I’m actually leaving tomorrow for another set of shows.”

The dead look in Ramsay’s pale eyes nearly makes Theon seize up. Those icy eyes seem to go even more numb, empty, soul crushing. “Is that so? How nice of you to tell me. For how long?”

Theon scratches the back of his neck, clenching his fingers slightly against his own flesh. This…is just not good. This isn’t a good start to anything. He doesn’t want to point out the fact that it isn’t like he would have had the time to inform Ramsay of this trip, considering the last few days.

Considering the false kidnapping and all. And Theon just coming back from a mini-tour not too long before that.

“We’re going for about two weeks.”

Ramsay blinks and makes this short little laugh, a contemptuous one. “What did you just say?”

He almost doesn’t want to speak the words again, afraid of the reaction they might bring. “Two weeks. We are travelling a little farther this time. More on the roster.”

The other man suddenly looks torn, standing there by Theon’s front door. “That’s…rather long.”

“I know.” It is. Theon’s aware, feels a bit of an ache in his chest already. Now that he’s had Ramsay, he doesn’t want to leave him. Especially not when he’s this pissed off.

“It doesn’t change anything.” Ramsay gives him a calculating look. “You remember our contract? The one you fucking signed?”

“How can I forget?” Theon asks cautiously, eyes searching his dominant’s face carefully.

Looking for signs that he’s saying the wrong things. Theon just screws things up, that’s what he’s known for. He feels like he’s failing Ramsay already and doesn’t like feeling like a failure.

A wry grin shapes those now familiar lips, the ones that have traced Theon’s spine. “You aren’t good at following rules. I worry about that. I want you to behave and be a good boy.”

Anxiously, Theon steps closer, trying to convey how much he agrees. “I know. I fucking _know_. But I’m going to be good. I know my place.”

“I am rather angry with you, you know,” Ramsay says, eyes half-lidded now, head tilted as he examines Theon, like a cat examining a mouse.

Of course. “I figured you would be,” Theon says drily.

“I’ll punish you for it when you get back.”

“For what, asshole? Because I have to go on tour? That’s how I make a living, you know,” Theon grouses out, irritation growing in his breast, replacing the fear.

Those eyes drift down his body, possessive. “You didn’t tell inform me of your plans adequately. You don’t need to work, you know. If you choose, I can just take care of you. Someday. Maybe not now. I’d take care of you.”

Theon groans with exaggeration. “Oh, shush. I thought we weren’t getting married? I like being in the band; I’m not quitting because you don’t like me traveling.”

Ramsay looks distinctly displeased by this revelation, but thankfully doesn’t say anything about it. He steps forward instead and presses his lips to Theon’s. His tongues gently traces the seam of Theon’s lips and Theon sighs, pressing closer to the other man. It almost feels like forgiveness, but that would be a lie. Those strong, dangerous hands cart through his hair, pressing into his scalp.

Theon moans, feels his cock begin to harden.

Then those hands tighten painfully. “Don’t forget,” Ramsay hisses against his lips jealously, “You’re mine now.”

When he opens the front door and begins to walk out, Theon feels a bit of himself leave as well. He suddenly feels naked and exposed, a piece of himself now absent. Then Ramsay ruins it when he glances over his shoulder to glare at Theon.

“Although, you should know; the punishment is mainly because you’ve given Robb Stark a key to your place and I want that key in my hands. Or else.”

Motherfucker.

* * *

 

* * *

When Tuesday comes, Theon meets up with the band for the long stint on the road.

The bus ride off to Red Keep for the start of the two-week trip is far more stifling than Theon could have ever anticipated. He sits on the couch, the one that goes along the side of the bus, idly picking at his fingers. Robb is staring holes into his skull from across the way, silently fuming.

Gendry’s baby blues keeps passing between the two of them in curiosity. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but there is some seriously bad juju floating around this bus.”

Jon is flipping through a book, face stern per the usual. “Oh, you noticed that? I thought it was just me.”

“Are you two having a fight?” Gendry asks Robb with great interest. “I don’t think I’ve seen that happen before.”

With exasperation, Theon sighs and says, “We’re perfectly fine.”

This is a lie. A blatant lie. The air in the bus has been making Theon want to roll down a window and jump. He knew Robb would be pissed if he ever found out that he was hanging out with Ramsay, but Robb just _had_ to find them in _bed_. Of all things. That certainly threw fuel on the fire.

Scoffing, Robb snaps, “No, we aren’t.”

Robb isn’t too good at forgiving. At least, not easily. He has this way about him, this righteous air that gives him this aura of wanting what is best for everyone around him, yet at the same time being furious when they do something he doesn’t agree with.

He always comes around, but Robb has an adjustment period and one can never tell how long it will be.

Frowning and rubbing the bridge of his nose, Theon says, “Well, we could be fine. You just _choose_ to be ticked off at me.”

“There is no ‘choice’ in this situation,” Robb says, sandpaper in his tone. “Just when I think you can sink no lower, you go and do something like this.”

Red flashes across Theon’s vision at that. “Sink no lower? Excuse me, dick?”

“You’ve been a train wreck for a few months, Theon. Don’t act like you don’t fucking know what I’m talking about!”

“Ohh, I see.” Jon sets his book down finally, giving the crew his full attention now. “This is about Ramsay Bolton. Not surprised.”

Robb nearly pales with fury, all color draining from his face in a wash. He turns his nasty expression on Jon, full blast. “You _knew_ about this?”

“I did.” Simple, to the point. Trademark Jon.

Gendry presses his lips together, seemingly impressed. “And he knows nothing. That must sting.”

“Of course, it fucking stings!” Robb yells, red coming back to his face. He points at Theon accusingly, “I’m his best friend! Attached at the hip for how many goddamn years?”

“Can we literally not talk about this?” Theon asks snidely. “You’re stressing me out.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Robb sneers. “Need some fucking coke?”

Theon rolls his eyes at him and goes to the back of the bus, throwing himself down in the small back room on the bed.

_“That was a little uncalled for, Robb.” Gendry says somewhere in the front of the bus._

He doesn’t want to deal with Robb right now. He’s got Ramsay pissed off at him and now Robb. He really doesn’t have the energy to deal with both their irritation.

When they get to the hotel for the night, Robb does not let up. In the room that he and Theon share, he continues poking and prodding.

“When were you planning on telling me?”

“I mean. I don’t think I was planning on telling you. I didn’t know I needed to keep you informed on who I screw around with,” Theon says, evasive.

“How fucking long has this been going on for?” There’s an edge building in Robb’s tone, rabid and dangerous.

He’s feeling betrayed; he feels like Theon has betrayed his trust and kept him in the dark. It’s true; Theon has purposely kept Robb away from all of this. With good reason.

“Robb. This isn’t…this isn’t necessary. He doesn’t change anything…”

“How long, Theon?” Unyielding, handsome face cut from stone.

_Well, shit._ “I’ve been hanging around with him for just about a year. We only recently…got together.” It sounds so much worse, coming out of Theon’s mouth.

Robb’s whole demeanor changes, like the hackles of a dog rising precariously. His eyes are sharp, intelligent. They see straight through Theon, laying out the whole story mentally as the pieces fall before him. “He doesn’t change anything. _He doesn’t change anything?_ Theon, you’re in a fucking relationship with this guy, this dangerous fucking guy, and you’ve been ‘hanging out’ with him for nearly a year. That sounds pretty serious for you. You don’t stay for anyone.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just…happened.”

“Great answer. You’ve answered all the questions I could have ever had,” Robb says sarcastically. “Well done.”

“You’re welcome to get the fuck off my back at any time, Robb. Seriously. I’m getting pissed,” Theon replies, ire making the vein in his temple throb.

“He’s not a good guy, Theon! If he could have gotten away with it, he probably would have knifed me in your apartment just for being there!”

It really isn’t far from the truth. Theon can’t even say no to that; he’d seen the look in Ramsay’s eye. He’d been livid at Robb’s presence, livid that Robb had a key and a place in Theon’s life. “I’m well aware that he’s not a nice guy.”

Robb stares at him, just shaking his head. “You know what? I want you fucking sober on this trip, Theon,” Robb says with a serious look in his gas flame blue eyes. “You need to cool it on everything. I’m serious.”

“As in…no drugs? What the hell are you getting at? No _alcohol_ too?!” This will be miserable if he can’t use something to take the edge off. Theon can’t cope…he needs drugs or alcohol to stay feeling level. So he can’t feel the pain of the day to day.

Shaking his head, Robb says with finality, “Nothing, Theon. Nothing. You went off the rails last trip and almost killed yourself. I think I’m beginning to see the bigger picture here. _Now that I’m informed_. He put you in that state. He made you so upset that you fucked yourself up last time. That was him. I haven’t seen you like that in ages. Things are making sense now, Theon. I fucking _see you_.”

Furious and feeling ashamed, Theon yells, “Oh, you fucking see me? Do you fucking see me when I’m drowning inside? When I feel like there’s no purpose for me anymore? Do you see me when I wonder what it would be like to weigh myself down to the bottom of the sea?”

Robb’s mouth opens and then closes. Sadness enters his eyes and his brow gentles. His shoulders sag. “Is that what he does for you? Theon, I’m your best friend. I love you. I see you in the best possible way. He wants you for your brokenness! I want to help you move beyond what tears you down!”

His words are too painful to hear. They’re too painful because Theon knows it’s all true. He knows that Robb has stood beside him through thick and thin. He knows that Robb would take a bullet for him. It’s like a knife in his gut, twisting and turning, tearing him open, this shame he feels.

Theon has no reason that makes sense, he only wants to flee and lick his wounds. This is too much. He can’t. He just _can’t_. He wants to run, the feeling so intense.

“Maybe I don’t care,” Theon hisses, storming out of the hotel room.

“Where are you going?” Robb yells after him.

Theon marches right up to Gendry and Jon’s room, pounding on the door. When Gendry opens it, Theon busts in and throws himself down on one of the beds. “One of you trade with me. I can’t be in the same fucking room as him right now.”

Robb stands at the door, a hurt look on his face, mixed in with the disappointment. “Are you serious? Going to hide in here? Am I too confrontational for you? Does the truth hurt that bad?”

Theon ignores him, staring at Jon pointedly. Jon sighs and runs a hand through his curly hair. “Can’t you two kiss and make up? I don’t want to move my stuff.”

“No!” Theon growls.

Littlefinger appears in the doorway and stares at them with a calculating look. “Would you all kindly stop arguing like prostitutes outside a love hotel and go the fuck to sleep? You have a huge show tomorrow!” He points at Theon. “Problem child; just…behave.”

Robb snarls under his breath and marches off to their room, leaving it open as Jon follows him, taking Theon’s place.

* * *

 

* * *

 The next night, the show goes as planned. Spectacular, actually.

Theon is sober, does as Robb demanded. It hurts actually, not having the poison running through his veins; he misses the way it numbs him to everything. The way it drags him down and makes him nothing, not even a person when he’s on the edge of a blackout.

Logically, he knows that Robb is right; once Theon starts on the drugs and alcohol, he can’t stop. He tailspins, divebombs straight down into hell with all his favorite toxins drowning him. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion that maybe he deserves to feel the pain of reality.

Theon deserves the agony and the misery; he hasn’t earned the right to numb himself to it.

The next few nights go well, too well in fact. Theon is angry at everything, depressed and loaded with self-loathing. His voice is utterly authentic when he sings, his lyrics a physical pain in his chest. Sometimes, his vocal cords hit a break, stutter with emotion, but it only seems to incite the crowd, screaming their love and adoration.

The local radio reporting on it only has fantastic things to say.

_‘Have you seen him these past few nights? Wow. When he sings, it’s like he’s been told his dog just died for the first time, every fucking night. You can nearly taste the pain, it’s so thick.’_

* * *

 

* * *

Throughout the week, he remembers to check in with Ramsay. He doesn’t call him, but he does text. The contract never specified how he was supposed to check in, only that it’s required of Theon. The first time is awkward, strange and stilted. After a few days though, it becomes a little easier each time, less foreign. Theon stares at his phone and wonders what to say, wonders what is considered ‘checking in’.

As he opens up the texting app, he vaguely feels like he’s letting his parent know that he’s alive. It’s a strange feeling. After thinking it through, he keeps it simple and says, _Sorry for the delay. Been shuffled around all day. How are you?_

The response is not immediate. It usually never is, even though Theon knows that Ramsay has seen the text usually shortly after sent. He likes his power trips, making Theon wait for his response, making him sweat and wonder if he even got the text at all.

_I’m tired. Father is keeping me rather busy this week, it seems._ There’s a momentary pause before another text comes through shortly after. _You looked good, last night._

Surprise pleasure zings through Theon at the text. And brief embarrassment. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about Ramsay watching him sing songs that are basically inspired by Ramsay. _You watched the show on tv?_

The response is quick, but short. _Yes._

By the end of the first week, checking in with Ramsay is like second nature, comforting. A reminder of who he is of value to and who he belongs with. Especially with Robb being a complete prat.

And. Theon misses Ramsay, as ridiculous as it is. He wants to be in bed with him again, wants to fall asleep to the sound of him breathing, calm and slow. He feels stupid, having these thoughts, but he can’t help it.

He’s never wanted to be close to share his space with someone like that before. Theon has always filled his emptiness with drugs and one-night stands. That worked for years and years. Now, it seems so distant to him, the one-night stands, anyway.

The drugs still call, a distant siren song, just out of reach.

* * *

 

* * *

He does go out with Jon, Gendry, and Robb, after a few days of general fighting with Robb. It’s different though, not drinking, not snorting anything. He suddenly sees the bar scene completely different, wonders what sort of spectacle he’s made of himself in the past.

Theon has never, ever, not been hammered on the night of a show.

Robb doesn’t drink in solidarity with him, which pisses Theon off as much as it makes him feel happy. Good old Robb, just has to be the paragon of all that is good in the world.

Girls, women. They still approach. They paw at him, look at him in ways that must be considered flirtatious to a drunk groupie. It’s far easier to push them away when he isn’t already under the influence.

One girl tries to claw at him, on the fifth night, trying to dig her nails into his shoulders, like it will get him in bed. Perhaps that would have worked, once. He jerks away with a scowl, praying she didn’t leave any marks. Ramsay would be furious. “Don’t fucking touch me like that,” he snaps.

She looks shocked at his reaction, then upset. “I thought you liked it like that…”

He does. But not from her.

Briefly, he’s disgusted, feels like meat again. The sort that groupies just want to use and abuse for their own ends. He realizes something, something that bothers him now; these groupies talk about their nights with him, share their fucking conquest stories. Talk about what he does, how he likes it, etc.

Theon feels like vomiting.

He returns to the hotel early, hating himself, hating how he let himself be treated while a drunk, drugged up mess for years.

Robb appears in their room (now shared once again) and sits on his own bed, sighing. “I know this is hard for you, Theon.”

“Yeah.” Is all Theon can think to say, the tension between them still thick. 

* * *

 

* * *

During the second week on tour, they have an interview. This time The Imp is not pulling his punches now that he finally has Theon in front of him, especially since Theon ditched out on their originally scheduled interview months ago. The Spider sits beside The Imp, effortlessly posh and poised.

“A year ago, one would say that you were becoming rather mainstream. Sellouts. It seemed like you were losing whatever it was that made you…well, you,” Tyrion says calmly, in his measured tone.

Robb quirks an eyebrow, charming smile plastered on his face. It isn’t a real smile, he’s annoyed, been annoyed for days, but he is good at behaving like a perfect gentleman under all sorts of fire. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

The Spider tilts his head forward a bit and looks at Tyrion from under a lowered brow. “It was indeed rather vague, my friend.”

The Imp nods after a fashion. “Ah. Yes. So it seems. Well, something changed! You all have this…rawness to you again. It’s refreshing. Aliiive.” He waves his hand in a gesture of theatrics.

“I still don’t hear the question,” band unofficial-spokesman-Robb says tightly, still smiling.

“What my dear friend is trying to get at is; what happened?” Varys says artfully with a toss of his hand, a shrug of his shoulder.

Silence falls across the band as they all look at each other, momentarily unsure of what to say. Theon avoids looking at Robb, while Robb barely refrains from glaring at him publicly. The tension becomes thick, sludge in the air.

“Theon is in a relationship.” Jon blurts out quite suddenly. “He has been for a while.”

Typical Jon. Because Jon can never tell a fucking lie. Damn that fucking code of honor.

The crowd gasps, women mostly in dismay.

Gendry snickers lightly, holding in a full out laugh while Robb huffs, rolling his eyes. Theon groans, pinching the bridge of his nose while his face turns red. Tyrion watches all of their responses simultaneously. “Well,” Tyrion declares without ceremony. “That was intriguing. Wouldn’t you say, Varys?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly. You all seem to be of different opinions on this matter,” the Spider says delicately. “Mr. Stark, you seem to be of a strong opinion, hmm?”

“Yes. I don’t like the person,” Robb says flatly, without hesitation.

“Ah. Would you care to elaborate?” Tyrion asks, swirling his red wine as he does so.

That’s the thing about Tyrion Lannister; he’s always drunk on his talk shows. That’s part of his charm, but some of his interviews have gotten a little racy in the past.

“Not particularly,” Robb replies drily. “Theon knows what I think on the situation. I don’t need to tell all of you.”

Tyrion and Varys both lift their brows in surprise at that harsh response, clearly seeing Robb being set in stone against speaking on it. Tyrion tries another angle, leaning towards Theon. “You don’t usually date, do you? That isn’t your thing? That’s the rumor, anyway.”

Anxiously, Theon rubs the back of his neck, shrugging his shoulders. “I haven’t had a steady relationship in…well I can’t remember since when. To be honest. So, yeah, it isn’t really my thing.”

Varys purses his lips, contemplative. “It must be serious then, if someone finally tied the infamous Theon Greyjoy down. Must be some girl.”

Robb throws his head back and cackles, an ugly, bitten off sound. Theon is frozen, doesn’t quite know what to say; does he say anything at all? Should he just nod and leave it at that? Oh, fuck. What if Ramsay sees this interview? Tyrion is giving Robb a surprised look and Robb stops laughing, coughing instead briefly. “I’m sorry, that was mean of me,” Robb says, not sounding sorry.

Varys is looking between the two of them now and then Littlefinger steps out of the side of the stage, making a time out gesture with his hands. “I’m afraid the fun and games are over,” Petyr says lightly, with his tight smile in place.

No doubt trying to head off a PR nightmare.

“A pity, I think we were just warming up,” the Spider says, eyes smiling like the sun.

The man misses nothing, of course, but neither does Littlefinger.

The look he gives Theon when they get off stage is dark, calculating.

* * *

 

* * *

_You’re mine, right? You’ve been a good boy?_

The text is a surprise, coming in late on the final night away. Theon feels himself heat in the dark, staring at his phone screen, staring at those words. _Of course. Always. Just yours, all trip._

Robb shifts in his bed, a slight snore passing his lips, gentle, drifting away. Theon is sharing his room with him, has been for most of the trip, but the snappish air between them still remains. Robb is hurt, but he doesn’t exactly want to be parted from Theon either. More likely he wants to watch him and make sure he doesn’t go on a bender again, but still.

Ramsay texts again. _Are you sure? I won’t find any marks from someone else, will I? I’d be very unhappy._

Ha. Unhappy is not the word that Theon would use to describe Ramsay when he’s ticked.

_I want you to look at me,_ Theon texts, the words heating his belly. _I want you to see what a good boy I’ve been for you._

_Maybe you’ve been a bad boy, maybe you fucked around with a nice sweet girl that wouldn’t leave any marks,_ Ramsay texts, a dangerous edge to it. Theon can almost hear his voice.

Theon rolls his eyes. _Why would I do that, when you’re my favorite fuck?_

A pause. Theon grins; he’s flustered him. Typing and retyping showing up in the message section of the app. Then, _Slut._

Theon smirks into the dark; Ramsay is definitely flustered. 

* * *

 

* * *

By the time they get home after the long two weeks, Theon is glad to be free of his bandmates.

Before they disperse to go their own directions home, Robb approaches Theon slowly. Theon sighs and braces himself, praying that Robb isn’t going to start something again. He’s been hoping that Robb would just settle naturally. Sometimes that happens, sometimes it doesn’t.

Robb holds his fist out for a bump, a tired smile gracing his lips. “Hey. Get home safe.”

Something melts in Theon’s chest as he stares at his best friend. He hates fighting with him. “You too, Robb. I’m sorry about-”

“Just hit my fist, dude,” Robb says, smile growing strained. He’s _trying._

They fist bump and make small explosions with their hands, verbally making the sound as they pop their hands open. Robb grabs him in a bear hug and squeezes him hard. The scent of Light Blue washes over Theon and he sags in that familiar embrace. “I’ve disappointed you,” Theon whispers. “You know how that makes me feel.”

It makes Theon feel like a worthless piece of garbage.

“Theon. You made it through two weeks not drinking or doing drugs. That’s huge, despite…the other thing. Can you keep that up for me?” Robb asks him seriously in his ear. “If you can keep that up, staying sober, and you still want Bolton after all of that, well then I guess there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“You know I didn’t pick him under the influence, right?”

Robb flicks his nose, eyes sad. “Yeah, well. When you over indulge in one bad thing, you tend to overindulge in them all. If you still want him when you are feeling good about yourself, then I have nothing else to fucking say.”

Snickering, Theon says, “Oh, you’ll let me keep him?”

“Based on that disgusting display I saw at your place, I think it’s the other way around, but nice try, Theon.”

“Hey!” Theon snaps, flushing.

When Theon gets home that night, he passes out in his bed, the bed that still smells of Ramsay. 

* * *

 

* * *

The next morning, earlier than anyone has any right to be awake, there comes a pounding on Theon’s door, incessant. With a hiss laced with disgruntlement, Theon pulls his pillow over his head, yelling, “Fuck off, it’s fucking dawn!”

The pounding on his door only increases.

Throwing his pillow across the room, Theon sits up, glowering. He had planned on sleeping until noon. His alarm clock says 5AM. Unforgivable. Someone is going to die. He storms out of bed and throws on some boxers and a shirt, striding over to his door, ready to give the asshole on the other side a piece of his mind.

When Theon opens the door, a snarl on his lips, he’s almost not surprised to see familiar black hair and fierce eyes. Almost, but not quite. The fury in him drains, like a hose. Those eyes are staring at him in near panic, pupils wide and yawning. Midnight hair is wild, unkept. Something tightens in Theon’s chest.

“Uh. Is something…wrong?” Theon asks, searching Ramsay’s face intently.

“Yes,” Ramsay snaps heatedly, nearly panting with exertion.

His mouth is on Theon’s before he can think anymore. Theon barely has time to inhale when he’s shoved back into his apartment, teeth and lips devouring him like a savage beast. Within moments, his clothes are torn off, thrown onto the flown haphazardly.

“What the hell?” Theon cries out, half asleep and shocked.

It doesn’t take him long to realize that Ramsay’s eyes are scouring his body. His strong hands turn him this way and that, inspecting _everything_. Looking for signs that Theon had been unfaithful to him; that Theon had broken the contract.

After a moment, Ramsay steps back, huffing, eyes like raging gales. “There’s nothing.”

Scowling, Theon holds his arms out and mockingly does a turn, completely naked and unashamed now. “Why is that so shocking? Did you really think I would screw around on you, after what we signed? I wear _your fucking name_ on my wrist!”

“Then why didn’t you come to me last night?” Ramsay hisses, pushing him backwards, towards the bedroom.

_How was I supposed to know?_ Theon thinks grouchily.

“You should have come to me, when you got home,” Ramsay rasps. “But no. You make me come search you out. Cunt. I bet you like making me feel this way.”

He’s pinned Theon to the bed, biting and licking at his neck, fingers digging into Theon’s wrists. _What the hell has gotten into him,_ Theon wonders.

“First off,” Theon gasps out, trying to free himself from under Ramsay’s aggressive grasp. “I have no idea if I’m even allowed to just ‘show up’ and find you. Second, I have no idea how I make you feel, so…can you stop for like a few seconds? I’m talking to you.”

Ramsay stiffens, hips halting in their rough grind on Theon. For a minute, something in Theon aches; he hasn’t seen this face in so long, hasn’t been treated how he likes to be treated in the absence of his…master. If that’s the fucking word, anyway.

“Then next time, text me the time that you will get home and I will come get you,” Ramsay snaps, displeased.

He crowds Theon on the bed, covering him, teeth and hands everywhere as he bites and grabs him.

There’s something off about how he smells. Like a penny. Thick. A strange, copper smell floating around his body.

It reminds Theon of blood.

_Saltwater, screams, blood, and gunshots. The air reeks of pennies, so thick he nearly gags._

A sharp bite to his neck jolts him out of his thoughts. “Hey,” Ramsay hisses, “I’m here. You don’t need to think about anything else.”

“It’s 5AM. I want to sleep,” Theon rasps, mind spinning, full of the disconcerting scent of blood.

He’s flipped onto his belly, flat on his bed. Ramsay’s body lies on top of his, draped on him like a sheet. “That’s fine. I’ll do all the work.”

“What?!” He can’t possibly mean that he’s going to fuck him anyway, does he?

The wet head of his cock brushes against Theon’s entrance and he realizes with a shock that, yes, Ramsay does plan on fucking him and the man is already dripping on him. “Shh. Don’t complain.”

Theon groans in exasperation.

The cock bullies its way in even as Theon tries to twist away. He’s lucky the other man is covered in his own precum, easing the way in, for Theon isn’t prepared for this. The burn is immediate, but not completely overbearing and Theon tenses in discomfort.

Ramsay doesn’t thrust, doesn’t move, just remains inside of him, draped on top of his body, breathing heavily. The weight is strangely comforting and Theon eventually relaxes, allowing Ramsay to settle on him further. The other man nearly purrs, nuzzling and biting into his neck. “I couldn’t wait anymore.”

Sighing, Theon says nothing in return.

They remain they like for a few minutes, Ramsay just making small, almost nonexistent movements with his hips. Each little movement rubs Theon’s cock against the bed, sending jolts of arousal up his spine. He’s glad Ramsay has some control in this at least; if he had slammed in dry and fucked away hard, Theon is sure he would have torn and bled.

Instead, he gets these nice, small movements, almost teasing, almost tasting. They lull him into a strange, warm calm. Arousal curling around him with sleepy purpose. When Theon starts to hump his own hips into the bed, trying to chase his own pleasure, Ramsay finally begins to thrust in and out slowly, letting Theon feel every inch of his cock.

Vaguely, Theon realizes he likes that Ramsay doesn’t wear a condom with him. The condom that they had used…that one time…that first time…had been rough inside of him, even with lubrication. The gentle slide of Ramsay’s naked cock, the heat of it…Theon likes it better, doesn’t rough up his sensitive insides quite as much.

_The perks of monogamy_ , Theon thinks wryly.

He can feel the full line of Ramsay’s body resting on top of his. It isn’t the aggressive, filthy fucking that one would find on their hands and knees. Its painfully intimate, Ramsay’s belly pressed against the curve of his lower back, his heated chest on his spine, legs on the outside of Theon’s. He’s even got one of his hands on his, gripping so tight that Theon is afraid he will lose circulation.

Though Theon had been unwilling initially, too fucking tired to want sex, he finds himself pressing his feet onto Ramsay’s trying to get some form of leverage so that he can tense his body, push back against him more, seek his own angles. Ramsay lets him do this with a soft growl, his own body tensing so Theon can do as he pleases from below.

Theon almost doesn’t want the strong pull of desire that builds in his belly, the way his cock persistently rubs into the bed, constant stimulation in time with Ramsay’s slow thrusts and rolling grinds. With his smart mouth, he asks, “What’s this? You’re screwing me like I’m a damn princess.”

“You were fucking gone,” Ramsay rumbles into the nape of his neck, though it sounds like a moan.

Theon figures that’s as close as he will get to hearing, ‘I missed you and lost my mind because of it’. He sighs, lets himself be taken in by the slow rocking, the slow burn inside of him waiting for release. It isn’t fast or heated. It’s slow, unwillingly sensual.

_Why does he smell like blood, Theon?_

Theon pushes the thought away, trying to focus on nothingness. An arm wraps around his lower belly, like an iron bar, Ramsay tightening his grip, his thrusts becoming a little firmer, like he’s trying to press his cock up into Theon’s stomach and out his throat.

Biting off a curse, Theon groans into the sheets, his eyes closed tight. Then, Ramsay shifts his angle completely and presses in harder, still measured and slow. Theon gasps as he briefly sees white behind his eyelids, “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah, you like that?” Low, sin covered tone.

“Ffu-” Theon almost shapes the words, but doesn’t, going mindless.

Ramsay presses there again, his thrusting now taking on a rhythm that doesn’t change, allowing the heat to build to a breaking point. “Come on, baby. Cum for daddy. He’s missed your slutty hole twitching on his cock.”

When Theon orgasms, it’s like a song tearing through his guts, stinging and pointed. His entrance clenches and flutters around the cock inside of him, milking it, squeezing it hard. Theon muffles his moan into his pillow and then lets himself lie there, boneless. Exhausted. Ramsay slides in two more times before he pulls out, resting his cock between Theon’s cheeks. He curses and then moans loudly and Theon feels wet heat begin to pile on his lower back.

For a moment, Theon doesn’t know how to feel, drifting in the aftermaths of his own release. Ramsay had just spilled on him, on purpose. Theon wonders if he should feel disgusted, the fact that another man just sprayed his release on him, marking him like territory.

He collapses beside Theon, chest rising and falling slowly. Calm now. His claim has been re-staked, his seed pooling on Theon’s lower back.

“Seriously,” Ramsay says drily, eyes drifting up and down Theon’s body. “What’s bothering you? You’re not paying much attention to me.”

The ‘I don’t like that’ hangs in the air unspoken.

The scent of blood. It’s still bothering Theon. If Ramsay hasn’t been working with clients, why does he smell like blood? He knows that Ramsay needs violence to get aroused, generally. For the most part, anyway. Did he…did he do something before he came to Theon’s? Jealously coils in Theon’s belly, sickly and green.

Why does he smell like blood?

_Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. If he signed a contract saying he wouldn’t take on other clients, he won’t do it._

“Sorry, Sir,” Theon breathes out dejectedly, trying to deflect, playing his own game. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long two fucking weeks.”

Pale eyes examine him in the dark, suspicious. Ramsay doesn’t believe him, but the man is letting it slide. “You just need me to put you in your place a few times. That should sort you out. We’ll play at the club tomorrow; you owe me some punishment anyway.”

“Oh, come on,” Theon whines.

A hand cracks across his ass sharply. “Don’t be a fucking diva; you’ll get what you’ve had coming to you since you left me. And you’ll fucking like it. Or you won’t.”

All teeth and razorblades in that tone. The collar catches Theon’s eye, sitting on the desk.

He has a feeling that he’ll be wearing it soon.

_But why the blood, Theon?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments so far! I'm sorry I didn't get to all of them from last chapter- this week was simply nuts and I barely had time to get this chapter ready for you all! Next week should be better, but I am anticipating another weekend update just because I'm a little behind. 
> 
> Cheers all! Hope you had a lovely week...I know mine was a bit trying personally.


	18. Secrets & Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those belong to George R. R. Martin.

They spend the rest of the morning in bed, Ramsay curled around Theon like an overgrown child. By the time his spend has dried on Theon, they are both sound asleep until Theon’s alarm goes off at noon. Ramsay jolts awake at the sound, almost electrified, his sharp movements waking Theon up more than the alarm itself.

“Jeez. You have to be the lightest sleeper ever. Almost gave me a heart attack,” Theon grumbles, rolling in the sheets.

He can feel the dried stickiness on his back and cringes. Ugh. He should have washed that off before it dried, but Ramsay would have had a fit. Possessive fucking bastard.

“I have an alert nature.”

Snorting, Theon replies, “I’ll say.”

Ramsay swings his legs out of bed and begins to dress. Theon watches him, feels empty. “You’re leaving already?”

Pulling his shirt over his head, Ramsay gives him a calculating look. “Did you want something else?”

Disbelief briefly runs through Theon, along with confusion. Does he actually mean…? He’s the one who raced over to Theon’s to stake a claim, it isn’t like Theon demanded he come over like a fucking booty call, ready to kick him out afterwards. “I mean, you don’t have to go. I don’t want anything. We can just hang around.”

Amusement shapes Ramsay’s lips and it isn’t a friendly look. More condescending than anything. “Like boyfriends? I didn’t think you were sentimental.”

That stings and Theon doesn’t want to examine the reason why. “I’m not sentimental.”

Something dark curls inside of him, ugly. Theon pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth, tries to keep his mouth shut against all the things he wants to say. Booty calls are fine. Fuck friends are _fine_. But Ramsay is neither to him and Theon doesn’t like feeling…whatever it is he’s feeling.

They’re something else. He just doesn’t know _what_.

The other man, now clothed, stands beside the bed, looking down at Theon’s face. Whatever he sees there makes him smile wider, a cat with the canary. Bastard probably likes the crushing emotion displayed in Theon’s eyes, raw and flayed. He grabs Theon by the chin and looks at him down the line of his nose. “I’d stay, but duty always calls.”

Theon yanks his chin out of his grasp, frowning. Looking away, hiding the emotions in his eyes. Ramsay snorts at the display. His ghostly eyes catch on the bedside table, noting the collar displayed there. Ramsay stills and Theon stops breathing.

“Tomorrow night I want you to come to the club,” Ramsay says, reaching over to touch the collar on Theon’s dresser. “And I expect you to be wearing this. I want everyone to know that you’re spoken for now.”

Still unsettled, all Theon can muster is a sullen, “Sure.”

Ramsay hits him, open palmed. “Now give me the correct response.”

Rubbing his jaw, Theon runs his tongue across his teeth, checking them all. “I meant, of course, _Sir_.”

The other man bares his teeth in a sharp grin, cruel amusement in his grey eyes. “It’s okay, baby. I know you’re a little rusty. You’ve been gone awhile; but I’ll get you back in shape.”

Of that, Theon has no doubt.

Ramsay is capable of anything, after all.

He’s even capable of making Theon feel used, the way Theon has surely made every girl that ever passed through his life feel.

* * *

 

* * *

When the next night comes, Theon heads over to the _Dreadfort Nightclub_ , collar in hand. He takes a taxi over; he has a feeling he won’t be driving himself home after whatever horror Ramsay has planned for him. Theon is due for _punishment_ , after all.

Because Robb Stark has a key to his place. At least, that’s what Theon thinks he’s being punished for, though how could he have known that would be considered unacceptable? It isn’t strange, having friends having a key to your place, after all.

But apparently it isn’t acceptable to Ramsay.

When he exits the cab, he stands on the curb and takes a deep breath. The collar is a heavy weight in his hands, like an anchor. The name “Bolton” stares up at him, bold and blatant. There will be no question who he belongs to now, wearing this on his neck like a dog. Feeling humiliated, flushing, he buckles it onto his neck, makes sure the bronze name plate faces forward.

For all to see.

As he approaches the line to get into the club, the bouncer waves him forward. “In you go. No lines for you anymore.”

The man is looking at the collar on his neck and Theon shrivels a bit, embarrassed to be seen as owned by another man. He enters the club, tries to not feel the eyes on him, judging him for what he’s worth. Weighing his measure like a prized horse. Once inside, the dim lighting makes him feel a little more invisible, but he still tries to avoid meeting the eyes of people he passes.

He can feel the way some stiffen, in his peripheral as he passes them. They stop and stare or they do quick double-takes, clearly shocked. Theon isn’t sure what to feel aside from the flame that heats his skin with degradation. He’s now publicly owned by a man that gives most people nightmares; what does that make Theon?

_I want a drink. Just one._

Theon shakes his head of the thought. Steels himself against the urge, the craving that fills his throat. He wants to taste liquor on his tongue, feel the burn down his throat as he fades into a warm glow. Comfortable and safe from his own feelings. That’s what he fucking wants.

He won’t fail Robb.

 _No alcohol, no alcohol, just get yourself water and disguise it as gin & tonic with lime. Or a kitty cocktail as a cranberry vodka. Fuck, no. Are you a sorority girl, Theon? Just…get the water. _His thoughts race as he approaches the long first floor bar, smiling hesitantly at the bartender there as she catches his eye.

He’s seen her before. What was her name? The blonde…big tits…Faith? Cara? Ah, something sweet. _Chastity_. Theon sits down at the bar and waits for her to finish making a drink for a couple a few chairs down. She winks at him, but then her eyes fall on his neck. Her eyes bug out momentarily, but then she laughs her surprise away, serving the drinks up before coming back to him.

“Ho-ly shiiiit,” the Chastity squeals, leaning over the bar, hand outstretched, cleavage bulging. “Let me see that!”

Eyes taking in those glorious globes of flesh, Theon leans forward to meet her, lifting his chin to her seeking hands. Her fingers touch the large nameplate, tracing the name there. Her eyes lift to meet his briefly and she purses her lips, nodding, impressed. “Never thought I’d see that name on someone…brave boy, aren’t you sweetheart?”

Theon grins flirtatiously, out of habit, letting his eyes drift over her. “Well, we’re in a trial phase at the moment. Two months. May work out, might not.”

Her large, false eyelashes flutter, eyebrows raised. “Hm. Best not bet on that; I’ve already heard how possessive he is over you.”

“That’s common knowledge?”

“Yes, so you best keep those eyes of yours to yourself,” she winks. “I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. He’s the boss, ya know.”

_Oh, yeah. I know._

Chastity continues, idly drying a glass, “Myranda is going to lose her shit when she sees that. _Hah_. He’s never collared _anyone_. She’ll be livid, she wanted to be _the one_ so bad.”

Theon grimaces, trying to not think about Myranda’s skilled mouth around his cock. “Yeah. I’ve gotten that impression distinctly.”

The collar around his neck pulls backward slowly, a hard pressure on the front of Theon’s throat. A familiar voice says, “Admiring his jewelry, are we?”

Ramsay stands behind Theon, fingers hooked in the back of his collar. Lightly cutting off Theon’s air, but not quite. A delicately aggressive hold, strangling him with his own collar. Theon sighs into the hold, allows Ramsay have his control of his body, pulling him backwards, neck exposed.

Theon is well aware of how delicate his master’s ego is.

Chastity must be relatively aware of the same thing, as she barely flinches at the sight of the rough hold. “Yup, boss. Looks lovely on him. What’s he drinking?” She asks, a wry smile on her ruby red lips.

The pressure immediately disappears, Ramsay no longer pulling back on the fine leather. His fingers remain on it lightly, gently stroking against the sensitive skin of Theon’s neck, just underneath the collar. Ramsay begins to rattle off Theon’s typical whiskey of choice, but Theon remembers…that he _can’t_. “Sir, I’m fine with water. Please.”

Familiar cologne fills his senses. Those pale eyes narrow in suspicion. “Did I get your order wrong? Did you want something else?”

Hoping that he doesn’t make some sort of connection to Robb or the band or the two weeks that Theon was gone, Theon adopts a shaky grin. “I’m ah…kinda off the liquor. And the drugs.”

“Oh? Is that so? Since when?”

The bartender looks uncomfortable, her eyes drifting between the pair of them. She must be able to see the strange tension, the irritation radiating off of her boss. He doesn’t like to be wrong; Theon knows. He doesn’t like to be denied anything, or look like he doesn’t know something.

Another customer gestures to their empty beer bottle, trying to flag the bartender down. Chastity utters nervously, “Boss, can I…?”

Ramsay waves her off with a sharp motion, still staring Theon down. Waiting for a good answer.

Theon doesn’t have a good answer. Or, at least not the whole answer. He can’t say that Robb is the one who put this on him, absolutely not. Even if this is good for Theon, Ramsay will only see that as someone interfering with his control of Theon. The idea of someone else telling Theon to do something would make him jealous, it doesn’t take a genius to know that.

And a jealous, angry master is not a safe master.

Taking in a deep breath, Theon tells a darker truth in order to hide the simple truth. “Since I almost killed myself on the tour before the last.”

The words hang there, like a body swinging in a noose. Hearing them aloud makes them sound far worse and Theon feels the despair keenly now, sober enough for long enough to understand what he had almost done to himself in his efforts to numb the pain.

Suddenly, Theon wants to take the words back, hide them away. Say it’s a lie, it’s a mistake, just a bad joke in bad taste. He turns in his seat, eyes panicked, looking to see his master’s reaction.

The blood is draining out of Ramsay’s face in a wash, his icy eyes wide. Then, his jaw clenches, his hands twitching, like he wants to go for Theon’s throat. It’s too late; Theon realizes that he can’t take the words back. Theon doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say aside from, “I’m sorry, I…it was an accident. An overdose. I’d…done too much…after our issues…and the hooks.”

He’s ashamed, underneath it all. Theon had lost control, lost himself to the maelstrom of poison.

Ramsay still doesn’t say anything, but something hideous is brewing in his gaze. He’s looking at Theon like he’s about to finish what Theon started, like he’s going to break his face open right here, right on the bar beside them. Instead of doing what is playing out in his gaze, Ramsay snarls and turns on his heel, storming away.

Mouth dropping open in shock, Theon stares after him. _What…the…fuck? What is he doing?_

Chastity leans over the bar beside Theon, lips pursed. “Did he just flounce away? You’ve been here like ten minutes and you’ve already pissed off the big man. You are gonna be in pain tooniiiight!”

“I don’t know what just happened,” Theon mutters, staring at the empty space that Ramsay used to occupy. “Does he want me to follow him?”

Chastity clucks her tongue. “Hell if I know. With a man like that, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. I’d never take a master like that, personal preference. But, you chose him, so you best go take care of him and whatever has his ass in a twist. Take your punishment like a saint too, lovebug.”

It’s strange. Hearing those words from someone who is virtually a stranger. ‘You chose him’ and ‘go take care of him’ suddenly take on a different meaning. A different purpose in Theon’s life. Theon did choose that fucking piece of ass, but he always figured he would be the one being ‘taken care of’, not the other way around.

Another bartender joins Chastity, shaking a martini, ice cubes rattling in the stainless steel shaker. “I saw that exchange. What are you waiting for? Your master needs you. I don’t want to deal with him at close in that state.”

Theon stands up and scowls, his head spinning. “What are you broads on about? He’s fucking ticked at me, why would he want me to follow him? Maybe he needs space.”

The new girl rolls her eyes. “That piece on your neck says he’s your fulltime job now; and that you want him to be. If he put that on you, it means he wants you to serve him. So, do it.”

Somehow, _somehow_ , that makes _sense_. A perfect circle.

After a few moments of completely wrecked nerves, Theon follows after him, shaking.

He finds him down in his room, back facing the door. Theon can see the tension in his shoulders, the white knuckled grip Ramsay has on the table edge that he’s standing in front of. Ramsay doesn’t move, doesn’t react to the sound of Theon’s shoes just outside the door.

“Ram…Sir?” Theon calls out carefully.

Ramsay’s frame stiffens even further, as if curling in on himself, trying to put a physical distance between him and Theon. “You shouldn’t have followed me down here,” Ramsay grits out, voice rough like flesh through a cheese-grater.

Shifting from foot to foot, Theon makes to come closer, wants to try and ease whatever is going on. He reaches out a hand, but Ramsay must have eyes in the back of his head because he snaps, “Don’t touch me.”

Shocked stiff, Theon pauses, heart pounding. He’s lost, he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this vivid of a reaction. “Ramsa-”

“Just give me a fucking minute!” Ramsay yells, letting out a shaky inhale.

Theon barely exhales, just stands still, like a deer in headlights. Confused, nervous. And a little irritated, under it all. He feels helpless; what can he possibly do to fix this violent mood swing? “Okay. I’ll go back upstairs then.”

Feet scuffing the floor as Theon turns to go, Ramsay sighs audibly. “No. Don’t do that. Just, sit down.”

Staring at the still form cautiously, Theon sits down in Ramsay’s chair, arms folded across his chest. He waits impatiently, watching Ramsay from the side now, sees the way his head hangs down, veins on his forearms popping from tension.

He seems like he’s restraining himself from doing something regrettable, so when Ramsay finally exhales hard through his open mouth, straightening up to his full height, Theon relaxes an inch. Like a marionette, Ramsay’s head turns sharply towards Theon, eyes blazing.

Releasing his death grip on the edge of the table, Ramsay slowly turns his body to face Theon, jaw clenched. He takes a few steps forward until he’s directly in front of Theon, dropping to a crouch in front of him. His hands take up residence on Theon’s knees tightly, but Theon refrains from wincing at the pain in his kneecaps.

Those winter eyes are staring up at Theon intently, a strange whirl of horror and fury mixing there. “You aren’t allowed to kill yourself.”

Of all the _fucking_ …Theon scoffs. “It wasn’t my intent to wrong you with the act. I hit rock bottom and couldn’t cope. I just wasn’t in a good place mentally. What I was doing…had gotten beyond my control.”

After the hooks and suspension, after realizing just how infinitely difficult and self-centered Ramsay could be, Theon had spiraled. He’d been so torn between wanting the humiliation and wanting to avoid more pain that he had divebombed into his own poisons.

He’s come to terms with how dangerous Ramsay is. He’s also come to terms with the fact that Ramsay does try, when it comes to him. Theon’s felt that distinctly; he’s felt the restraint, can almost taste the way Ramsay tries to not consume him, chew him up and spit out his bones.

The idea that he can hold some sort of sway over such a vicious man is a heady thing, never mind the fact that Theon has given himself to him.

Ramsay doesn’t look happy or impressed with Theon at the moment. “I suppose you blame me for it?” The question dares Theon to say yes.

Theon wouldn’t dare. Not aloud. He’s not an idiot. “Like I said. It was an accident. It wasn’t supposed to happen. I fucked up,” Theon says flatly, feeling like he’s talking about some other person, not himself.

It’s a situation that happened to someone _who is not him_.

Something flickers in Ramsay’s eyes as he lifts a hand and brushes it across Theon’s cheek, featherlight. Then, his eyes harden as something occurs to him. Speaking lowly, voice like a razor, Ramsay says, “Who found you?”

 _Huh?_ Theon is thrown for a moment. “What do you mean?”

Ramsay’s lip curls as he stands up, returning to his place beside the table, leaning his hip against it. “It’s very simple. When you almost OD’d. Who. Found. You.”

Ah. Theon can almost see the pieces of the puzzle dropping into place now in Ramsay’s eyes. The man is simply too smart, always seeing the holes in Theon’s words. Sighing in resignation, Theon whispers, “Robb.”

An ugly quirk shapes Ramsay’s lip. Jealousy, written there. “So, that’s why you’re off all your favorite things. Because Stark told you ‘no more’. I see. You’re rather good at omitting the finer details of things. But not good enough to hide them from _me_. Even if you want to _die_ because of _me_.”

Getting angry now, Theon rises to his own defense. “I didn’t want to say anything to you because I knew you would react this way.”

“How am I reacting?” Cold, deadly.

Theon almost doesn’t want to answer the question, that strange glimmer back in Ramsay’s eyes. Dead, empty. Hiding something. “You’re acting like a jealous maniac over something you shouldn’t worry about. Robb is just a friend, always has been. You don’t have to worry.”

Ramsay laughs, sharp and cruel. “Jealous maniac? Oh, you _haven’t_ seen anything yet. If I had told you to go off the drugs and the booze, you wouldn’t have done it.”

Frowning, feeling slighted now, Theon snaps coldly, “That’s where you’re _wrong_. You’re fucking wrong and you aren’t seeing what you have. I would do _anything_ you asked of me. Within reason.”

Ramsay’s mouth is open, like he’s about to retort, but then his jaw snaps shut. He stares at Theon, runs his tongue over his teeth. He likes the words that Theon said, Theon can see it in his grey eyes. The problem is, fear still lingers there, this fear that Theon is finally beginning to see take a shape.

His master fears losing him.

 _And that’s power._  

Then, Ramsay goes blank again, eyes dead and distant. “Anything? I doubt that. Why don’t you talk to me about what it is you do with your precious Robb. I’d love to know.”

Theon frowns, stiffening. He doesn’t want to talk about Robb with Ramsay. Robb is the good and pure part of his life; he doesn’t want to talk about him here, in the dark. Like some sort of animal at the zoo for Ramsay’s angry whims. “There are some things about me will never belong to you. Not because they can harm you, but because they are _mine_.”

Nostrils flaring, Ramsay says in a deathly calm voice, “All of you belongs to me.”

Anger, bottled up tight, builds in Theon’s chest, ready to burst. “You can’t just ‘own’ all of a person. You can’t just demand that I give you everything inside of myself. You have to leave some of me to me. If you take everything, there will be nothing left. _Nothing_.”

Ramsay grabs his face roughly and Theon smacks his hand away, face red. Ramsay doesn’t let that dissuade him, pressing forward to grab Theon by the front of his collar. He jerks him forward painfully, sneering, “I can and will own every single part of you. You signed the contract; you can’t just change your mind when it suits you. No. You’re due for punishment from weeks ago and I’ll see that through gladly.”

Theon stares into that face, the one that haunts his every waking moment. He’s rarely seen Ramsay this unleashed, this furious with him. Theon’s stomach feels ill, like a million worms are coiling around inside of him. He remembers what happened the last time that Ramsay lost just a little control.

He remembers the hooks cutting through his flesh. He remembers the time Ramsay scared him so bad that he pissed himself, making him believe that he would actually stab him. Taking a nervous breath in, Theon asks carefully, “Can you handle punishing me in the state that you’re in?”

This gives Ramsay pause, his eyes blinking, as if suddenly seeing Theon clearly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, breathing heavily, eyes searching Theon’s body without rhyme or reason, no reason that Theon can possibly understand. Then Ramsay rasps, “Yes. There’s one person in this room that doesn’t want you dead, and guess what? It isn’t you. Now, carry my fucking chair. We’re going for a walk.”

Hesitantly, Theon grabs the chair (or rather more of a stool) that Ramsay uses when he’s working on someone and needs to sit. “Where are we walking to?”

“The platform. We’re going to demonstrate what a good boy you can be. _When you put your mind to it_ ,” Ramsay hisses over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

Theon follows him up the stairs, hoisting the chair as he goes. They go up the second set of stairs from the first level, heading to the second level where the play platform is. The stage appears to be already occupied. A group of people are performing some sort of bondage technique to a vaguely interested crowd.

Ramsay walks in through the middle of them all, uncaring that he’s interrupting anything. He snaps his fingers impatiently as he says loudly, “Alright, clear the platform.”

One of the demonstrators looks at him in irritated confusion. “But, Sir, we’re in the middle of a-”

Blandly, Ramsay stares down the man. “Do you see my face? Do I look like I fucking care what you’re doing? Clear the platform. I’m going to be exhibiting something tonight. Right now, actually. Theon, put that damn chair down. Yes, right there.”

The platform clears within moments. Ramsay speaks to one of the platform assistants and the woman returns with another chair, this time a typical wooden chair, handing it to Ramsay. He places it in the middle of the stage and straddles it, arms resting across the back of it. He gestures to the assistant again, saying, “Bring me the set. The one in the mahogany box. That should do the trick for this naughty bitch.”

The woman nods with wide eyes, glancing at Theon with something that looks like pity.

_Ah, fuck._

She disappears, off to get what Ramsay asked for. His master turns his pale gaze back to him, where Theon is standing off to the side, anxious. “While you’re standing there, take off all of your clothes,” Bolton says, voice husky. “Show me what’s mine.”

Pausing, looking around at the spectators, Theon flushes, hands trembling slightly. “…the boxers too…sir?”

Those cruel lips, those lips that Theon loves on his skin, quirk. “You may leave those on. And the collar, of course.”

Of course. The collar that everyone is staring at.

Everyone knows who he belongs to, everyone sees who has collared him. Everyone sees who he _allowed_ to collar him, willingly.

Flushing in humiliation, feeling the burn of many pairs of eyes on him, Theon strips off his shirt and pants, throwing them in a pile along with his shoes. He feels exposed, standing in only his underwear, collar, and watch.

Ramsay smirks filthily, his eyes roving up and down his body with what can only be lust tinged with violence. Ramsay stands up from the wood chair and gestures for Theon to go to it. “Kneel in front of that. I want your thighs pressed up against the legs, flush. Wrap your arms around the back of the chair.”

Theon gives him a dark look, already not liking where this is going. He can hear the different whispers and speculations going on behind him, the crowd wondering what the display will be. With one more nasty look, Theon drops to his knees in the middle of the platform, thighs flush with the chair legs, wrapping his arms around the back. He hears the clink of Ramsay’s belt being undone and vaguely wonders if he’s going to be whipped.

Theon tenses nervously, anticipating a hard strike across his back. Instead, Ramsay wraps it around Theon’s wrists, keeping them locked in place behind the chair. Then, Theon feels rough rope being tied around one of his thighs, then around one of the chair legs. Then he ties the other. Fear dashes through Theon once he realizes he’s been tied up to a chair in a rather exposed position.

“Your heart is racing,” Ramsay comments darkly, as he steps away to observe his work.

“No shit,” Theon hisses.

A hand lands across his ass hard, loud enough to make the crowd wince in sympathy. “Try again,” Ramsay says lowly.

“No shit, _Sir_!”

“Hn. Better.”

Though he can’t see her from his new position, Theon hears the assistant come back with whatever Ramsay has been waiting for. Ramsay pulls his stool up behind Theon, where Theon can’t see him, setting down a heavy wooden box beside them. Ramsay speaks to the crowd. “I suppose you’re all wondering how I’m going to punish this naughty slut, yes?”

There are numerous replies of agreement.

“In this box are some of my most delicate blades. Many would have been used for flaying flesh, back in the old medieval times. But we’re not savages, are we?”

The crowd laughs, but Theon sweats, fear trickling across his flesh. Flaying? Blades? He can’t be fucking serious, the contract says-

“I’m going to show you some very detailed knife play tonight. My sub does not like knives, which I’m sure will distress _some_ of you during this display. However, he is being punished tonight and cutting and scarring happen to fall within our boundaries.”

Theon tries to fight his panic down, his jaw clenched so hard that his head begins to ache. He struggles against his ties slightly, just to test them, but finds that he truly is stuck to the chair. He loathes knives, loathes what happened last time with Ramsay. _Please don’t threaten to stab me again, please don’t make me piss myself in front of a crowd, I’d fucking rather die…_

On the side of the platform that Theon can see, The Breaker of Balls appears with two male subs. She has both of them go on their hands and knees beside each other, their backs flat. Theon watches as Dany sits on them, as if they are furniture instead of men.

Well. He’s never seen that before.

Dany sits and has a skeptical look on her face. “No gloves, Bolton? You know that’s unsanitary when blood is involved and the audience should know, too.”

Fingers dig into Theon’s scalp roughly, so hard that he winces in pain. Voice mocking, Ramsay sneers, “How about it, slut? Are you riddled with nasty fucking diseases?”

Theon knows that Ramsay is well aware that he doesn’t have any diseases. He fucks him without a condom, Theon is aware that Ramsay clearly doesn’t care about bacteria between them. It’s all for show, the humiliation of being called dirty in front of a crowd. No one else here knows that Ramsay barebacks without a second thought where Theon is concerned. No one could possibly know that Ramsay forgoes a condom just for the sheer pleasure of filling Theon with his cum.

Theon remembers, the memory filling him with delicious arousal and shame.

_ “I’m gonna take this condom off. I want to fuck my cum up into you and fill you up. Mark you inside.” _

_ A moment of worry flashes inside of Theon. “Obviously, I’m clean-” _

_ Bolton thrusts hard and Theon winces at the pull in his upper back. The other man starts talking in that gross sweet tone of his when he’s being particularly nasty. “Of course you are, I’m the first to open you up, sweetie. Took your sweet fucking cherry.” _

Of course, Theon’s cock begins to fill, hardening under his sick pleasure, the arousal he feels just thinking of being in bed with the _awful fucking man_ hovering somewhere behind him with fucking knives. Fuck, people are going to see his boner. He nearly moans at the thought, but bites his lip.

Choking, face heated, Theon says into the seat of the chair, “No, Sir. I’m not. I’m not dirty.”

The fingers in his hair release him suddenly and Ramsay steps away, voice filled with false cheer. “He says he’s clean! So, we must be alright.” Then he pauses, letting silence hang thickly. “But, he can’t always be trusted. He’s a filthy liar. So, I guess I’ll glove up, just in case he’s filth after all.”

People are snickering, making cruel jokes about it and Theon digs his face into the wood of the chair, wants to disappear into blackness. Theon hears the tell-tale snap of latex gloves. He’s _not_ fucking dirty.

A hand reaches around very suddenly, catching Theon’s cock in a firm grasp. Theon moans loudly, horrified and horny. Ramsay is fucking stroking his cock to full hardness, in front of a crowd. A woman gasps in shock and Theon grits his teeth, unable to stop how aroused he feels.

There’s something to it, being on parade for his chosen dominant, letting everyone see how his body reacts to being displayed this way by Ramsay. The way Ramsay owns and controls his body. That hand slides up and down, up and down until Theon is nearly crying into the chair, desperate for release in his underwear.

_ “Am I crazy?” A woman is saying to her friend. “That looks like a big fucking dick. Wow. And he’s a submissive!” _

Theon whines, feels his balls tighten up, horrified that he might actually orgasm in front of a crowd until Ramsay lets go. “This is punishment. Don’t forget that,” Ramsay whispers in his ear, leaning over his body.

The hand disappears and Theon sobs in disappointment, his balls aching in desperation.

He hears the wooden box opening, sharp objects being pulled out. The sound alone should be like icy water being thrown over Theon, but he's too amped up with want, adrenaline, and degradation.

“You should know; this will scar,” Ramsay says aloud, his knives rasping together, bringing back awful memories for Theon, mixing in with his maddening arousal.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t just dig in; he waits. He’s waiting for Theon to say something. The longer time draws out, Theon remembers that in the contract he had said that Ramsay needed to ask permission for scarification, just as a formality. Relief shockingly pours over Theon.

He remembered to wait, to tell Theon. He didn’t ask, but waiting for Theon to acknowledge him is as good as asking, especially in front of a crowd. Theon sighs, breathes out shakily. “Please, just don’t make the scars ugly, Sir.”

Theon’s fucking cock aches, despite his frayed nerves.

A latex gloved hand runs down his back, feeling the bumps of his vertebrae. “I’ll enjoy every scar I give you, because I’ll know I put them there,” Ramsay says huskily. “They’ll all be lovely.”

A moment later, Theon feels something cold press against his skin; the flat of a blade. Ramsay is speaking to the crowd again, explaining the techniques to use with a few of the different types of knives he has at his disposal.

Theon’s skin prickles in terror; the blade is so close to cutting him. His erection begins to slowly flag. He knows what’s coming. It's like being on a ride at the amusement park, the kind that takes you higher and higher until it stops at the very top. The kind that makes you sit there in terror, waiting for the telltale click of the mechanics...and then the drop, straight to the bottom.

“For some subs, the very idea of the knife is terrifying and some doms never even need to make incisions,” Ramsay is saying loudly. “But for my boy, he’s terrified because he _knows_ I’m going to cut him. He knows I’ll draw blood.”

It’s almost unnoticeable, the strange, searing cold sensation that slowly trails down Theon’s back. It takes a moment for Theon’s pain receptors to acknowledge that one of Ramsay’s blades has indeed begun to penetrate his flesh, running down the line of his back.

It’s a shock and Theon barely has time to even react before the cut is done.

“You’d best not move,” Ramsay says. “We want these to look nice later, yes?”

What was once cold and strange is suddenly burning, the fire in a fine line. The incision must not be deep, but it burns like flame. A papercut, but far, far worse. Theon realizes that Ramsay does want Theon to be tough through it; he doesn’t want an embarrassingly weak sub. Not in front of a crowd.

Theon wants to be a sub worth being proud of. He’ll mask his pain the best he can.

Ramsay is telling the growing audience about another blade type, lulling Theon into false calm. Then the new blade dives in, rougher, more serrated. There’s no words for how absolutely awful it feels, ripping and tearing at his skin until it finally gives, heated blood trailing down Theon’s skin.

Theon gasps, choking on a sob. It’s misery, but he knows he’s being punishment for Ramsay’s enjoyment. Ramsay is probably fucking hard.

_ “That sub isn’t a masochist. He barely flinches from the pain, but you can tell he’s suffering terribly. He’s unbelievable. A sadist’s dream.” _

Again and again, the blade dips in, lines curving down the line of his back. A design that Theon doesn’t care to guess, can’t even focus on. All he can focus on is not embarrassing himself by crying. Not that anyone would see his tears, his face buried against the wood of the chair he’s hogtied to. Keeping in his screams takes all of his willpower. He bears the misery, because that's what Theon is good at.

It feels like an eternity. Theon can feel blood dripping like rivers down his back, down his sides. It upsets him more to wonder what the scars look like, wondering what Ramsay has been drawing back there. He’s noticed that Ramsay has stopped talking to the audience; he’s become completely focused on his work, blades dancing down Theon’s spine with flourishes.

His hand reaches around again, touches Theon’s flaccid cock gently, rubs a bit. “I’m sorry,” Theon says in a strangled whisper, strangely saddened that he can’t be hard for his master. His body isn’t responding right.

Ramsay nips at his ear. “It’s okay. You take the blade so well,” he whispers thickly, arousal in his voice. “You make me so hard. I want to fuck you right here, in front of everyone.”

Theon makes an undignified noise in response to those words.

He does want to fuck his master, but not in front of these people.

The blade twirls again, carving into his flesh. Spreading it apart, blood trickling down his skin, rivulets of crimson against pale flesh. Ramsay eventually goes completely quiet, no longer speaking to the crowd. His voice, which had been a constant at the start, has now gone silent.

The cutting doesn’t stop and Theon begins to wish it was over, terrified that he has no flesh left on his back, his imagination running wild. What is Ramsay fucking doing back there? Time and pain are spinning into each other, but the pain isn’t far enough to make Theon dissociate.

He’s in his body, aware; he’s not fucking leaving. He wants to fucking leave, wants to float away like a ghost on a string.

Seated on her subs in front of Theon, Dany frowns. She stands up from her human furniture, starting to walk onto the platform. She comes over and stands just beside Theon and Ramsay, staring down at them. Theon can only barely see her reach out to Ramsay, as if to tap him on the shoulder. “Hey,” she says gently, but firmly, “Take a deep breath.”

Theon takes a deep breath upon hearing the command, but his wounds burn at the expanding of his flesh and he whines. Dany sighs, “Theon, I didn’t mean you. Just take it easy. Relax.”

_She didn’t mean…she was talking to Ramsay?_

“We’ve all been there,” Dany’s saying to Ramsay. “I get it. But remember where you are and remember that you don’t want to take him too far. I’m just giving you a gentle reminder.”

A hand comes to rest on Theon’s hip gently; Ramsay. Then, Theon whines in pain as Ramsay rests his face against his back, against his open wounds, sanitation be damned clearly. No longer caring about the crowd, only about the body in front of him. His breath skirts across Theon’s skin heavily, a rough cadence.

Then he sits back, Theon cringing as the air hits his wounds again.

Dany runs her hand through Theon’s hair, saying to the crowd, “And that’s advanced knife play people.” There’s clapping and Theon realizes that the scene is over, that his master must be collecting himself just behind Theon.

“May I untie him?” Dany asks above Theon’s head.

“I can do it,” Ramsay says quickly, sounding amped up and sharp. “Leave him alone.”

The belt comes undone and the ties, leaving Theon free. For a moment he doesn’t move, just trying to understand his own body and cataloging his pain. After a few seconds, Theon struggles to his feet, feeling the strain of his flesh on his back. He groans low in his chest, feels wrecked, raw and exposed. He turns to see his master staring at him, pupils wide and focused only on him. Theon’s blood is smeared all over his face, crimson and bright. Ramsay hands him his jeans, “You can put these back on, but…let’s wait until we clean your back up for the shirt.”

Theon nods, slowly pulling his pants on. His movements are restricted, as moving too much causes an awful pulling sensation to rip through his back. Ramsay steps forward and helps him into his pants gently, taking surprising care. Theon thanks him softly, red faced.

“I should take you downstairs. Get you fixed up,” Ramsay says, eyes painfully focused. “Maybe get you some pain pills too.”

“Got any morphine?” Theon asks with a shit eating grin, body screaming. He tries to ignore the agony, tries to be tough. He’s a tough fucking guy.

_He is._

Frowning, Ramsay says, “Not for you. Come on, let’s go.”

“You might want to get cleaned up. You’ve got…blood on your face,” Theon says, gesturing helplessly.

Those piercing eyes stare into him, down into his very soul, consuming. “I don’t fucking care.”

“Well, you should,” Dany says, coming to join them. “You don’t want someone filing a health hazard complaint against the club, do you?”

Ramsay rolls his eyes, which looks ridiculous on a man with blood smeared on his face like a demon. “Fine.” After a moment, he stomps off to the bathrooms, leaving Theon with Dany.

Dany gives him a bland look, the smile that isn’t quite a smile. “That was an impressive display. You sure are a tough cookie. Most people who aren’t masochists would be a mess after that.”

Theon refrains from shrugging, feels blood trickling out of his wounds. He needs to get cleaned up soon. He’s afraid to move, afraid to see what’s been literally carved into his back. “I’ve got the art of suffering down to a fucking T.”

“Hmm. That you do. That’s a little dangerous, don’t you think? He adores that,” she says vaguely, eyeing the collar around his neck.

_He’s fucking dangerous no matter what the case is._

“What…what happened at the end there? When you intervened. Did something go wrong?” Theon asks her, feels sensation coming back to his face, the side that had been pressed against the chair seat.

Dany smiles widely, violet eyes squinting a bit with her smile. He’s never seen her smile like that. “Oh no, nothing went wrong. I just noticed that Ramsay went into top space. He stopped explaining what he was doing to the crowd; he literally forgot we all existed aside from you and what he was doing with you.”

“I…I’ve never heard of that…”

“Yeah, well…most people don’t notice it on their masters until they’ve been together for some time. But I recognize it when I see it. He’s not good at hiding that kind of single-track focus, _ha_. I was just giving him a reminder to come back to reality, the one that exists outside of just you.”

Theon frowns, feels his back burning incessantly. It feels like a thousand papercuts, but far worse. “Is it a bad thing? Did he lose control?”

Someone places a glass of red wine in her hands and she sips from it deeply. “No. Not bad. In fact, he was utterly focused on you and that’s all he could focus on. It just shows how much he really enjoys working with you. Probably why ‘ _you’re the one’_ , as they say. It would be cute, you know, if it weren’t him.”

Something in all of that occurs to Theon. “Is it like subspace? Will he…drop? Or whatever? Feel, off?”

Dany shrugs. “Some don’t. But some tops do experience a drop. I’m sure you’ll make him feel good about himself.” She winks. "Nice collar, by the way. I hope you know what you're doing."

Then Dany pats him on the cheek a few times, like he’s a sweet child or some shit, and saunters away with her wine, a few subs following after her. Ramsay appears at his side again, looking serious. “What did that she-bitch want?”

Giving him a tired, pained look, Theon says, “She was just complimenting you on a job well done.”

“Hn. I bet.”

Ramsay takes Theon down to their playroom and sits him down on the table, looking at his back. Theon watches as he gathers his medical supplies, getting ready to stitch Theon up no doubt, disinfect as well. After he does, he places both hands on Theon’s face and utters lowly, “You did good, baby boy.”

Theon’s heart swells tiredly, but despite his mental exhaustion, he beams. His back still hurts, but at least he knows he won’t be getting an infection and all the wounds are covered up now. It’s better than how Ramsay used to be, just sending him home without any care at all. He’s gotten better, that way. Unlike before, Theon feels taken care of, despite the pain. He feels like a trophy, one that Ramsay is proud of.

Theon's never had anyone proud of him like that before. 

Despite his lack of energy, Theon slides off the table, sinks to his knees in front of Ramsay, watching the way Ramsay looks at him in confusion. Ramsay is hard in his pants, has been ever since he began cutting Theon up. Violence and blood turns him on, Theon knows this well enough.

“What are you doing?” Ramsay asks, cocking his head to the side curiously.

Theon fingers the collar around his neck, exposing it. “Aren’t you the one who said you were going to fuck my throat while using this collar as a handlebar?”

Those pale eyes go black, pupil consuming all the pale grey. Like a viper, he grabs Theon by the collar and pulls his face against his crotch, grinding his clothed dick against Theon’s cheek. Ramsay throws his head back and moans, “Fuck yes. Filthy, you’re fucking filthy, bleeding on my floor and saying filth that like.”

And though Theon isn’t really a fan of the act itself, he _is_ a fan of the way Ramsay comes apart, the way his legs go weak, the way he begs nicely. The way his hands shake with need as they grasp at the leather collar around Theon’s neck, grasping at it like he’ll die if he lets go. The way he gasps and moans deliriously, the hot fucking things that pour out of his mouth, laced with need and desperation.

 _And that’s power,_ Theon thinks as Ramsay cums.

* * *

 

* * *

A week later, his skin begins to heal tightly.

His scars look like wings, like wings folded against his back, against his spine.

Perhaps Ramsay is sentimental.

More often than not, Ramsay runs his tongue up and down those scars and scabs, like he's fucking eating pussy.

It turns Theon on more than it should.

* * *

 

* * *

A month passes with little issue. In fact, Theon would say things go rather smoothly, all things considered.

Except…

Except when things don’t go smoothly.

* * *

 

* * *

“She wants to know if you’re coming to her birthday,” Robb says, his voice blank in Theon’s ear through the phone.

“She who?”

“You know who! Who wants to go to the dance clubs every year for her birthday?”

Theon smiles; he knows. “I didn’t think you could possibly be talking about her, considering you’ve banned me from having fun indefinitely.”

Scoffing, Robb replies, “I haven’t banned you from having fun; I’ve banned you from being a toxic mess! Big difference. You might even have more fun, seeing as you’ll be aware of your surroundings for once.”

Ah. Big difference. Sure. Theon isn’t sure he sees that, but okay.

“Why hasn’t she called me herself? Since when does she make you call?” Theon asks after thinking about it for a moment.

Robb sighs laboriously. “She heard we are having a tiff. She wanted me to call you, obviously trying to make us smooth things over.”

“Are we still fighting over that shit? I thought we were past it,” Theon mutters.

Pausing, Robb says, “We are. I mean, mostly. I just. I just can’t wrap my head around the whole thing, you know. It’s a huge change for me, too. Not just you.”

Now is as good a time as ever to bring it up. Theon winces even as the words leave his lips. “He wants the key, Robb.”

“Excuse me? Now he dictates who can come to your place?” Robb sounds incredulous, voice erring on dangerous.

Groaning, Theon says, “I don’t want to get into it right now! Just…think about giving me the damn key back sometime. Soon, preferably.”

“I’ll make a fucking copy. He won’t even know. But I’m not giving him _my_ key.”

“Fucking hell, man.” Theon figures it might work. For a while. Until Ramsay figures out that Robb still has a key.

“Are you going to Sansa’s party or not?”

“Yes!” Theon hisses.

“Good!” Robb snaps back.

Her party is a week later, at one of the ritzier clubs in the downtown area. High class and tasteful, just how Sansa likes it, her whole crew out for the night, including Robb, Arya, Gendry, and of course, Theon. Robb once again refrains from drinking to help Theon stay on track, despite the amount of bottle service and liquor flowing.

The dance floor is packed and the birthday girl floats between hanging out with her family and visiting with her girlfriends on the dancefloor. Theon watches her as she flits around, her natural beauty hard to miss in any crowd.  

Robb and Theon relax at their bottle service booth, repeatedly confounding the server with their refusal to pour themselves any alcoholic drinks. Theon glares at Robb whole-heartedly. “This is torture, you know.”

“Torture, you say? I thought you were into that,” Robb says with a snappy grin. As always, his hair is perfectly done, a lovely navy sport coat bringing out the blue of his eyes.

“You know what I mean! Can’t I have just one?”

Pouring himself more water, Robb sighs. “You know you never stop at one, so the answer is no.” His eyes flicker up, taking Theon in. “You’ve been doing great, you know. I think this break has been good for you. You seem more…you. Less of a mask.”

“Dangerously handsome, big dick, and sharp wit? Who would want to mask that?” Theon snarks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Rolling his eyes, Robb says, “You, obviously.”

“ _Ahem_. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

They both look towards the dancefloor, spotting Sansa standing there with her nose in the air, looking at them expectantly. Her red hair cascades over her shoulders, sharp eyes glittering. Sansa is clothed in a beautiful emerald dress, one that is tight on top and flares out like an A-line dress at her waist, ending just above her knees. The dress is open to her navel, daring and risky, but she pulls it off, much to Robb’s dismay. Sansa quirks her finger at Theon once she has his attention, a sly smile shaping her dark coral lips.

Theon saunters over to her, adopting a sharp grin as he approaches her. “You summoned me, love?”

Rolling her smoky eyes with an air of flirtation, Sansa grabs him by the hand. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me to dance. Unfortunately, it seems I’m required to ask you. Disappointing, Theon.”

Giving her a sheepish smile, he pulls her to the dancefloor, pulling her close, moving in time with the beat. “Is this better?”

“Much,” she says archly, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Thank you for coming out tonight. I know Robb has had you…cut off from booze.”

_Among other things._

“I wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world,” Theon says fondly, dipping her as much as the crowded dancefloor will allow.

She laughs, lovely like a tinkling bell. “To be fair, I really want you here for the dancing; I do grow weary of watching Arya grinding up on that boytoy of hers.”

Boytoy must mean Gendry, clearly. Sansa must not find him witty. Perhaps she finds him dull. Theon doesn’t know, doesn’t really care. “You don’t need me to dance; there are plenty of guys who would dance with you and you know it.”

“Well, none of them are you. I like how you move your hips. You’re a tease and that’s fun,” she says laughingly, eyes bright in the dark.

The only thing that has ever kept Theon from her is the fact that she’s Robb’s sister and he follows the bro-code strictly when it comes to Robb. Don’t be dating no bro’s sister, even if you would shred that piece of ass up in a heartbeat!

He jerks her hips to his sharply, drinking in the way she shrieks in delight. Sansa reaches out as a girl carrying vials of shooters walks past. She cries out after her, flapping her hand with a tipsy aura. “Wait, wait! I want one!”

The shot girl nearly scowls at being summoned in such a fashion, but Theon shoves a few bills in her cleavage to soothe that over. He shrugs his shoulder innocently, “The birthday girl wants what she wants.”

Sansa grabs one of the vials and upturns it into her mouth quickly, shaking her head once it’s all down her gullet. “Yum. Thanks, Theon.”

“Anything, Red,” Theon whispers in her ear, pulling her close again.

“So, I hear you’ve got a boyfriend,” she says teasingly.

_Ugh. Not her too._

“I do _not_ have a boyfriend,” grouses Theon, turning them around on the dancefloor, letting her feet glide as she follows his movements effortlessly.

She’s a good dancer too, always has been.

“What is he then?” A challenge with a smile, the Sansa special.

Theon waffles for a few moments, unsure of what to say. He can’t just come out and say ‘he’s my master’, because that sounds crazy aloud as well. Partner doesn’t work, because they aren’t. He doesn’t know what they are and briefly he feels stupid because of it. “Get off it. You’re drunk anyway, I don’t need to tell you dick about that.”

Sansa laughs delicately, flips her scarlet hair. “And you’re sober. For once.”

“Yeah…yeah. I’ve been sober _loads_ of times, Sansa.”

She gives him a skeptical look. “Not like this. There’s something about you, now. I can’t quite place it.”

Pulling her closer, arms tight around her waist, Theon replies, “That’s because you are probably wasted enough to be seeing double by now.”

“Nah. It’s in those pretty eyes of yours. You’re…vulnerable. I rarely see you that way,” she says over the drone of the music. “It’s kinda lovely. In a tragic way.”

“Give me a fucking break,” Theon snaps, flushing. He does _not_ look vulnerable, he’s not a fucking puppy.

They come to a halt as the music slows. Sansa wraps her arms around his neck, leaning against his chest. He can smell her perfume, vanilla and lavender mixed together with tonka bean. “It isn’t bad,” she leans up to whisper into his ear. “I like seeing what’s under that mask you wear.”

Theon wraps a hand in her lovely mane of hair and gives it a light tug, rasping lowly, “How about we just dance and stop worrying about me, yeah?”

“Hm.” She arches her eyebrows at him, but complies.

When she finally lets him go back to his seat by Robb, a gaggle of girls have been watching them dance, no doubt wanting a turn with Theon, hoping he’ll ask one of them to the dancefloor.

He doesn’t ask anyone else, doesn’t really want to.

“You do realize that this is really, really weird, right?” Robb says it with a slight grin gracing his lips.

“What’s weird?”

Robb gestures to the girls that walk by, giving Theon meaningful looks, disappointed when he doesn’t acknowledge them. “You’ve been a manwhore your entire life. Then one man snaps his fingers and magically you have principals? Maybe I should ask him what his secret is.”

Snorting, Theon sips his sparkling water. “I’ll tell you what it is; I don’t want my dick to get chopped off.”

“You fear him.” It isn’t posed as a question.

“I do. But not in the way…that you would think. I suppose. I’m probably not making any sense,” Theon mutters.

Rob cracks his neck absently. “You should fear him, flat out. You know what Dad always says about the Bolton’s.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Theon mutters under his breath.

Together, he and Robb mimic Ned Stark, saying in a serious tone in tandem, “Those backstabbing Bolton’s. You can never trust a family that’s only out for power and money, without regard for how those ends are made.”

Sipping his club soda with a sad little smile, Robb says, “Dad is always right about those sorts of things. And his dad before him. And so forth.”

Theon shrugs; he’s heard the song and dance for years. Ned Stark is almost a father to him. Almost. “The cops have never caught them out on anything though…so how does anyone know that they are doing anything criminal?”

“Are you blind? Roose has the dough. And, everyone in power knows how to fucking ask him to make their problems ‘go away’. Hell, the cops are probably on the payroll of the Lannister’s and the Bolton’s.” Robb is scowling, irritated.

Theon sighs, leaning back in the booth, letting the club lights play on his face. “Face it; your family just has had feuds with the Bolton’s for years over a lot of petty shit. That’s why you don’t like Ramsay. My family has had no such feuds.”

They see Sansa waltzing towards them with her group of friends and Robb quickly gets his last word in. “I don’t like him because he fucked with your head so bad that you nearly killed yourself on one of our tours. He’s not a good guy.”

“Robb-” Theon starts with exasperation, but stops when Sansa stands in front of them, arms akimbo.

“Hey,” Sansa says, snapping her fingers imperiously. “I’m ready to go to another place. The vibe here is getting dull.”

So, they leave.

As they step outside, Theon sees a familiar face, one that makes his stomach twist with distaste.

Myranda.

She’s standing there, smoking with another girl. He’s seen her around the _Dreadfort Nightclub_ before; Violet, he thinks her name is.

It’s strange to see both girls outside of the bondage club, wearing normal club dresses.

When those blue eyes catch on Theon, Myranda gives him a tight smile, filled with bitterness and blatant dislike. “Oh, look at you,” she breathes out. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your collar. And you’re dressed _so nice_.”

“Fuck off,” Theon hisses.

Violet twists a lock of her blonde hair around her fingers idly. “What a mouth he has on him. Ramsay chose _this_ over you?”

“So, it seems, Violet,” Myranda says tightly, teeth gritted, false smile still in place. “By the way, pet,” she says to Theon, a dark look crossing her face. “We were at the _Dreadfort Nightclub_ a little earlier before we came here. Your master was looking for you.”

Theon frowns, checks the time on his cellphone. “It’s just past 2AM, the _Dreadfort_ is closed now. I’ll just see him tomorrow.”

Myranda blows smoke out of her mouth and into Theon’s face. Her lips twist into a wide smile, like Cheshire cat. “He’s usually there past close. If I were you, I wouldn’t keep him wondering why you weren’t around tonight. You wouldn’t want him to find out you were out with Stark all night. You _know_ how he is.”

Theon does know, but he’s torn. Wouldn’t Ramsay have called him or texted him if he expected him to come around? Myranda sees his indecision and shrugs, puffing on her cigarette again. Violet titters as they walk away to another bar, singsong voice saying, “It’s your funeral, Theon. The side door in the alley is always open after 2AM.”

They both cackle raucously as they disappear around the corner.

Anxiety races through Theon as he considers. He’s never gone to the club after close. Fucking hell. Wouldn’t Ramsay have called? Shit. He should go, just in case. The worst that can happen is that Ramsay will be mad at him for showing up so late at night. He’ll bitch and tell Theon to see him tomorrow, but at least Theon won’t have to worry anymore that he’s committed some grievous crime by not going to the club tonight if Ramsay was indeed looking for him.

When he finds the Stark’s hanging out by the side doors of the club they have just exited, Theon goes and gives Sansa a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Happy Birthday, Red. I gotta go.”

“Ah, the boyfriend,” Sansa nods drunkenly, as if she understands everything.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Theon yelps with irritation.

Robb scowls, one hand on his hip, surrounded by all of Sansa’s girlfriends. It’s a hilarious sight, actually. Theon smiles. “Catch you later, Stark.”

“Uh huh. Be careful, Theon.”

Theon hails a cab and has it take him to the _Dreadfort Nightclub_ , exhaustion nipping at his heels. The night has been long, but now Myranda has him nervous; what if Ramsay really did wonder why Theon hadn’t come by at some point tonight?

_But what if she’s lying? What if she just wants to get him pissed off at you? She hates you._

The thought is painfully logical. It makes sense. But still. Theon just can’t shake the urge that he needs to go make sure all is alright.

As the club comes into view, darkened now after close, the cabbie says, “You sure this is where you want to go?”

 _No._ “Yeah. I am. Thanks.”

He steps out and strides to the side of the club, a little nervous about the darkness that covers all of the alleys at this time. The club looks dead as the grave to any passerby; perhaps it is. Perhaps Ramsay is gone already and Theon doesn’t need to go through with this.

They’ll talk tomorrow and it will be like nothing ever happened. Maybe Ramsay was never even asking after him in the first place. _But he gets so pissed off and worried about where you are…what if she tells him that you were out with Robb and Sansa and you never at least tried to see him?_

_Fuck._

Theon steps into the side alley that Violet was talking about, nerves electrified. He wishes he were drunk, none of this would bother him then. He misses the coke; misses the way it makes him feel like he can conquer _anything_.

There’s a dark red door, almost black, standing ominous and rusted. Like coagulated blood. The night presses against Theon’s back, pushing him forward, his shaking hand reaching for the door knob. Somehow, he hopes it won’t turn.

But it does.

It’s open after 2AM and Theon can’t help but wonder why.

With a screech, the door opens as he hesitantly pushes his way inside. There is darkness inside, yawning and unending; he’s never come through this entrance before; at least not in his right mind. Despite the darkness that stands before him and all signs that point to no life inside, he hears a stream of music coming from _somewhere_.

It’s some sort of heavy metal, thrashy, a screaming rasp bouncing maliciously off the walls with the wail of a guitar.

Frowning, Theon steps inside, realizes that no one will know that he has entered, considering the music must be loud. No one will hear the door screech shut, nor will they have heard it open. He feels along the walls, walking through the underground maze until he hits some stairs. He hears a scream that doesn’t seem to match the music, but one can never tell with death metal. _What the fuck goes on here after close?_

Theon climbs the stairs, tries to not let his muscles freeze with his nerves. Something inside of him wants him to turn around and go back the way he came, something tells him that he really shouldn’t be here, not right now.

There was a look in Myranda’s eyes, like she _knew._

Theon shivers.

Inhaling deeply, holding it in his chest, Theon closes his eyes and tells himself he needs to find out. There’s something here, there’s something that Myranda was trying to tell him. Could…could Ramsay be working with other clients still? After dark?

The though is painful, sends a knife in Theon’s heart. Myranda would be the type to tell Theon, just to hurt him. Nothing else would make sense, after all.

Well, if Ramsay is fucking around…Theon is going to be livid. He’ll walk. That’s it. If Ramsay thinks he’s exempt from the contract, _he’s fucking wrong_.

No one fucks around on Theon fucking Greyjoy.

Now fueled by anger, Theon finishes climbing the stairs and finds himself standing just inside a dark hallway. He’s on the first floor now, recognizes the open entryway to the right that leads out to the dancefloor and the bar. If he were to walk straight past that open archway lined with skulls, he would find the stairs that go down again, to where the private playrooms are.

There’s light coming through from the entryway, the music now louder, aggressive and consuming. Almost ear rattling. Standing in the darkness of the hallway, Theon peers around the corner to see what is going on in the main club area.

What he sees confuses him.

There are a few men sitting at some of the tables, some serving themselves at the bar, smoking. Money is laid out on the tables and _that fucking troll Damon is counting the fucking stacks and stacks_. Another man that Theon doesn’t recognize is beside him, with big tattoos on his arms, a rough buzzcut, and a scar bisecting the corner of his lips.

Ramsay isn’t amongst the men. More likely than not; Roose Bolton’s men.

Another scream tears up from the underground and now Theon knows for sure that it isn’t part of the music. Some of the men wince and one waves at a guy by the sound system. “Turn that up louder. Shit, this one’s loud.”

Theon turns his face away from the main room and stares further down the dark hall he’s currently in, where the next set of stairs down are. The ones that will lead to the private rooms. The one that leads to where Ramsay’s room is.

_Motherfucker. What is he doing? And with who?_

Slipping past the open entryway as carefully as he can, so that he isn’t noticed, Theon storms down those stairs, fully intent on giving Ramsay a piece of his fucking mind. Another scream, bloodcurdling, rips through the hall as Theon nears Ramsay’s room door.

It’s slightly ajar.

 _That scream doesn’t sound normal. That’s not a normal scream,_ something inside of Theon cautions, scared. _You won’t like the answer to your questions, Theon. He’s always told you this. How is this any different?_

He pauses, just beyond the door, almost paralyzed with nerves. Sweat drips down his spine now, his stomach sick. Is Ramsay playing with someone else? Or is this…is this something else entirely?

Ramsay’s voice floats through the door, vicious, “Numbers don’t lie. Damon has counted twice. It isn’t all there, which, I’m sure you’re aware of. You already knew. That’s fine. That’s why you’re here…and that’s why _I’m here_.”

Something cold drips into Theon’s belly, cold and hard. Icy. He takes another shaky step forward, nearly dizzy with apprehension. The loud music upstairs is a tiger at his back, screaming furiously, fraying his nerves beyond recognition.

Theon pushes the door open and what he sees almost doesn’t register.

Everything freezes in his mind as he tries to come to terms with what his eyes are seeing.

It isn’t what he expected. He almost wishes it had been what he expected, originally. Now he fucking wishes that Ramsay had been cheating on their fucking contract, he wishes, oh fuck he wishes. Theon wishes as his mind fractures and goes blank, nearly white. An unthinking animal overcome with the need to run.

There’s red everywhere, the usually pristine floor stained, blood dripping into a small, almost unnoticeable grate. There’s a man strapped to the wall, spread eagle in the buckles by his wrists and ankles. His face bloodied, bruised and broken. His stomach-

Shit no. Can’t. _Don’t fucking see that_. It isn’t real. It isn’t reality.

The air smells. Thick. Coppery.

Standing in front of the man is Ramsay, his back to Theon. Or at least, his back was turned to Theon until the man on the wall turns his horrified eyes to Theon, rasping out, “Help me!”

Ramsay turns slightly, anger written on his face at being interrupted. At this angle, Theon can see that the man’s intestines are wrapped around Ramsay’s wrist, like a fucking rope.

Wrapped. Around. His. Wrist. Outside of his body. Red drips, the organ looks squishy and ill, the scent in the room so thick that Theon feels vomit rushing up his esophagus. He tries to swallow it down, heart racing.

Theon nearly blacks out, the horror so viscerally intense. It’s an organ, from inside of someone’s body. An organ wrapped around Ramsay’s wrist like a fucking bracelet. Time slows as Ramsay stares at Theon. He can't even understand as he stares at Ramsay, almost blindly; how can he see the man he's taken into his bed? How can he see that man here, in the skin of a monster, wrapped in blood as another human being bleeds to death a few feet away?

Ramsay blinks the anger away as his eyes focus on Theon, realizing exactly who is standing there. Theon sees the moment that Ramsay realizes that Theon is actually Theon. Ramsay blanches, eyes going wide, pupils constricting into pinpoints. The truth is written there; this is what he's kept hidden from Theon. This is the dark side that he's kept under wraps. Theon feels the burn of vomit rushing up his throat, stomach revolting.

Ramsay takes a step towards Theon, unthinkingly. The man on the wall screeches, his organs being pulled with Ramsay’s movement and Theon dry heaves, saliva dripping to the floor. Ramsay's voice loses the aggression, sounds so weak when he says, “Theon. Wait- don’t. No. Don’t, don’t walk away. Babe-”

Theon runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are loved!! Thank you all very much :D They inspire me to keep writing!


	19. Choice and Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> **AN:** Thank you for all your lovely comments!! I am still in the process of replying- my whole week was absolutely insane with work and sometimes I have to choose between replying on time and getting this darn story written LOL!! I figure you all want chapters faster than responses haha.

Even though it’s dark underneath the club, all Theon sees is red.

He can almost taste blood in his mouth, see it spilled across his vision like a painting gone wrong. It feels like something is caught in his throat, choking him, suffocating him. He can’t breathe, all his inhales feel tight and strangled as he runs blindly, stumbling into one of the walls in his rush to escape.

Escape.

It’s almost a joke, a complete laugh, without the laughter. Theon’s running from the man he’s trusted to take a blade to his body. The same man who he just witnessed playing with someone’s guts like a string. That’s what stings through the blank horror; Theon _trusted_ him.

He lay his life in Ramsay’s hands countless times, those bloodstained hands.

_Up the stairs, across the hall, down the next set of stairs, lower floor. Out the door to the alley. Run, fucking run._ These thoughts race across Theon’s mind endlessly as he tries to envision his route to the alley exit, but his horror makes his thoughts hazy, not to be trusted.

He can only hope the men upstairs do not get alerted to the situation.

Even as he thinks this, he hears a bloodcurdling wail come from the playroom, the horrid wail of a man with his intestines hanging out of his belly, hanging all the way to the ground like fucking sick party favors. The sound gets cut short, gurgled and then Theon hears rapid footsteps behind him.

“ _Theon! Stop_!”

Deep down, Theon knew there was no way that Ramsay would let him just run away. Since when has the other man let him just turn his back on him? Never. In this situation, there is no hiding from what Theon just saw, no explaining it away.

The man, the one hanging in that room. He isn’t a client. He’s not going to get off that rack alive tonight. He’s going to fucking die, his blood an ocean on the floor. His guts colored ribbons.

The death metal is still blaring upstairs and Theon prays that it continues blasting, keeping the men from knowing what he knows is about to happen. He feels it in his gut as he reaches the stairs; like watching an accident about to happen, knowing it’s too late to stop it. Fate, crashing in hard without mercy.

Like Ramsay.

He makes it up three of the stairs when he’s tackled from behind, Theon’s chest slamming hard into the stone stairs. He cries out in pain, thrashes madly. Ramsay growls behind him, trying to contain Theon, trying to grapple with him and stop his struggling.

Ramsay’s hands are sticky and slimy on Theon’s arms, causing him to nearly vomit again, dry heaving violently into the stairs. Ramsay uses his whole body to pin Theon, his chest pressing down hard into Theon’s back, grinding Theon’s chest into the stairs. There will no doubt be bruises later, but Theon’s adrenaline keeps him above the worst of the agony.

A heated breath bathes Theon’s cheek as Ramsay’s legs wrap around his own, trying to wrangle him like a crocodile. “Stop fighting me,” Ramsay grunts out, a strange edge to his voice.

Though Theon may have listened to Ramsay once, may have submitted once upon a time, he will not submit now. Blind terror, a different sort, courses through his veins, compelling him to fight for his life. This isn’t just a man behind him; it’s a man who is capable of murder.

_You always knew he was capable of anything._

Theon tries bucking him off, desperately saying, “You’re…you’re a fucking _murderer_. Get off, don’t touch me…fucking hell _please_ get off of me.”

Ramsay stiffens, body tightening around Theon. “Do you think I’m going to kill you? I’m not, just stop fighting. It’s going to be fine; I’d never do that to you.”

_He’s not even denying it,_ Theon thinks with horror. Wouldn’t anyone else try to deny what Theon had seen?

Stilling in shock, Theon sags into the stone, letting the pain ground him briefly. “All this time. This is what you’ve been up to. After hours. All those _fucking nights_ -”

“I make unfortunate people pay their dues,” Ramsay says conversationally. “They aren’t innocent by any means. It’s not-”

Theon can’t listen to this. This _cannot_ be explained away; it _cannot_ be justified in terms of innocence and sin.

He’s been lied to; he’s been played like a marionette and he can’t believe he never saw what lay beneath the mask. Revulsion and betrayal taste like acid, burning him from the inside out. “I let you touch me. I…I…oh my God. I’ve slept beside you. I almost thought I could lov…no. Let me fucking go!”

With the force of Theon’s movements, they slide down a step, the stone knocking against Theon’s bones and probably Ramsay’s knees. Despite this, Ramsay only ups his effort to contain Theon, wrapping around him like a boa constrictor.

So completely driven to consume and keep him that Ramsay will strangle the life out of Theon in the process.

Ramsay smells of rot and flesh, the blood going old on his clothes and body. Theon nearly gags at the scent even though he is now surrounded by it. Ramsay is covered and Theon’s mind provides horrible images, his imagination running wild. Perhaps, after he ran, perhaps Ramsay ripped out all of the man’s intestines and danced in them like a savage.

Or perhaps he just disemboweled the man and let everything spill onto the floor, dark and disgusting, ready to be left to decay and fester.

Ramsay holds onto Theon desperately, grip slimy. Someone else’s blood. Someone who is probably dead now. “You’re overreacting. You’re just in shock. What you saw bothered you, I get that-”

“ _Bothered_ me?” Theon squawks inelegantly, using all of his strength to push himself up and away from the stairs. “Overreacting? Are you insane? _Get. Off. Of. Me_!”

They stumble backwards, Theon using his feet to push them backwards violently with the momentum. Ramsay stumbles and trips, causing them to fall onto their backs, Ramsay taking the brunt of the fall. The monster groans in pain and his iron grip relaxes momentarily. Theon takes his opening and rolls to the side, hopping to his feet with the creak of his joints.

“Don’t,” Ramsay says, voice almost cracking as he stares up at Theon from his spot on the ground.

Theon pauses, gazes down at him, nearly paralyzed, torn between flight and fight. He wants to run from the monster on the floor, but he also wants to fight him over all his fucking lies. Did all of this ever mean anything at all?

_What if all of this has been meaningless? What if I meant nothing at all?_

Seeing that he has Theon’s full attention, Ramsay slowly starts to sit up, hand held out shakily. “Just. Give me a change to explain. Don’t run away from me. I won’t hurt you.”

Theon takes a nervous step towards the stairs, adrenaline spiking again. “If you truly mean that, you’ll let me go. You’ll let me walk out of here.”

Ramsay’s face changes viciously, hissing, “I can’t let you go, you’re mine. _I’m not letting you go_!”

That’s the thing; somehow Theon knew that would be the reaction.

_He wants to own you, he’s always wanted to own you, ever since he got a taste of what that_ means _._

When Ramsay makes to stand up, Theon kicks him in the face, hears the satisfying sound of Ramsay’s nose cracking, blood spraying out in an arc.

Then, Theon runs for his goddamn life.

_Run run run run, get the fuck out of here._

Just as he makes it to the top of the stairs, he hears Ramsay bellow out, “CATCH HIM! DON’T LET HIM LEAVE.”

The music in the main club room jolts to a stop as Theon flies by the entryway, bolting through the hall to make his way towards the next set of stairs. Towards his exit in the alleyway. Out of the corner of his eye he sees men standing up and abandoning their seats to come after him.

_Fuck. They all know I’m here now. Damn Ramsay’s loud fucking voicebox._

“Princess!!” That fucking blonde troglodyte, Damon laughs cruelly. “Why are you running? Don’t you know we all just want to play?”

Theon nearly stumbles down the next set of steps, yelping as he trips on the last stair, hitting the ground hard. Without pause, he picks himself up and continues running, hitting into walls as he goes, trying to make his way through the underground maze.

He distantly hears Ramsay shout in pain again and imagines the man just snapped his nose back in place. Theon is momentarily proud that he could cause Ramsay any harm at all. The pounding of footsteps becomes thunder as the crew upstairs race after Theon.

The men make barking noises, their yipping and howling echoes through the stone walls as Theon runs blindly back the way he came. He’s reduced to nothing more than animal instinct, like a small animal being chased down by a fox.

His mind has narrowed, his vision almost blurred with terror. Theon doesn’t have a car, he doesn’t even have time to call a cab; he can only hope that he can run and hide. Like a fucking awful video game, like one of those games that thinks it’s entertaining to give the player heartburn as they run weaponless from a monstrous villain.

Except, this is a bit different.

Theon’s running from his fucking not-boyfriend and his crew of heathens. He’s running from everything he fucking saw tonight, wishing he could just magically forget it all ever happened. It’s all just a nightmare, he didn’t see all the dirty money. He didn’t see Ramsay’s hand shoved up in some man’s guts, ripping out his intestines with his bare hands.

Theon didn’t smell or taste copper in the air, the kind that makes you gag because it’s thick and you fucking know the smell is coming from inside of someone else’s body. It’s the smell of pain and agony, of horror and nightmares that run unchecked.

Theon can hear the pounding of footsteps behind him as he races through the dark tunnels underground, twisting this way and that as he tries to remember which way is out. Where is the door that leads to the outdoor alley? It must be close.

It _has_ to be close.

“Where’s the fucking door?” Theon whispers harshly, eyes darting madly in the darkness.

It’s like a rat maze, down in the dark and briefly it suffocates Theon, giving him the impression he’s going to die in the dark, in some forgotten corner, Ramsay’s Boy’s garroting him while they all caw with laughter, a fucking murder of crows.

When the door, that blasted rusty door comes into sight, Theon nearly dies of relief, his heart pumping madly. His hope gives him a burst of energy, helps him fight through the agony his lungs feel as they gasp for air.

He slams through the door and just as he does, the large blonde appears behind him, just about to follow him through the door. Theon sneers at him and slams the door into Damon, hearing a dull thud as the man’s face blasts into it.

“You sly ass cunt!” Damon shrieks.

Someone laughs at him and Theon doesn’t wait around to see who. He runs down the alley, the night sky still dark even though the hour must be nearing three. Theon’s body is tired, but his mind is in overdrive, telling him to keep running until his heart gives out.

He breaks out into the main strip and runs down the street, trying to figure out his next turn so that he can disappear from view. It doesn’t take long for him to hear the group of men chasing after him, their feet loud on the cement, a herd of buffalo.

“I just saw him turn down that way!”

“Stop dragging ass, run faster, we gotta get him.”

“What did he see?”

“Does it fucking matter? Ramsay wants him back.”

Left right, right, left. Theon twists and turns, running through back alleys, behind buildings and townhomes, trying to figure out a plan on where to hide when a fist comes out of nowhere around the next corner, catching him in the cheek unexpectedly.

With a cry of dismay, Theon falls onto his front, his knees screaming on impact. He’s kicked over roughly, onto his back and finds himself staring up at the man with the dark buzzcut, the scar bisecting his lips. The man’s dark eyes glitter in the dark, scar twisting with disdain.

Ah, the tattooed ruffian from the club, sitting by Damon. He’s got muscles for miles and looks like he could crush Theon’s throat with little effort. Theon groans and tries to stand up, but the man kicks him down again.

A group of three men appear around the corner, panting with effort. Damon’s face looks like it met a door and Theon’s spirits lift at the sight. “You’re going to pay,” Damon snarls at him, blood pouring from his nose, into his mouth. “Fucking bitch.”

He goes to punch down at Theon, but Theon is ready for it. With a growl, he takes both his fists and slams them in Damon’s knee, causing the joint to give out briefly. The blonde stumbles, his momentum taking him down to one knee. Theon rolls to his feet and punches him hard.

The look of shock on Damon’s bloodied face makes Theon sneer down at him nastily. “I had two brothers; I know how to fight Neanderthals like you.”

The blow to the back of his head catches him by surprise. “How about Neanderthals like me?” A deep, gritty voice asks him with unpleasant amusement.

The next hit is like truck and Theon drops again, momentarily dazed. _What is this guy wielding, the Hammer of Thor for a fucking fist?_

Someone sits on his chest and hits him again and again until he feels the fight nearly drain from his limbs.

“He told us not to kill him,” someone says from very far away.

It’s hard to breathe. Hard to even see. Is that sweat or blood getting into his eyes?

Everything hurts, bile rising in Theon’s belly. He’s going to die; he’s going to die in an alley so far away from the sea. It isn’t fair. Things aren’t supposed to be this way.

How could he have been so foolish?

The weight on his chest disappears and then a booted foot connects with Theon’s side. His stomach revolts, roiling. He’s going to puke.

The dark-haired man with the tattoos, built like a fucking marine, lands another kick into Theon’s abdomen. Everything hurts, his stomach cramping. Theon feels bile rush up his esophagus, forced by the blow. Vomit oozes onto the cement from his mouth, burning just as bad as his bones.

Suddenly, he feels himself being picked up, a large hand fisted at his neck. Theon blinks, tries to speak, but his tongue feels bitten and swollen. The man is examining him, midnight eyes intent.

“I’m not killing him,” the man says gruffly, his voice gritty like sandpaper. Like a cat’s tongue against your cheek.

Theon places his hand on the fist holding him up, as if he is going to set himself free from it. Theon knows he won’t get free, something inside him tells him that the man is wrong, his body is giving up and he’s going to die.

Theon is going to be a pile of guts by the time this night is over.

He can feel that fact in his bones.

The man hoists him with both hands and slams him hard into the brick wall beside them. The force rocks Theon’s body, the back of his head hitting the surface hard. It all happens in slow motion and Theon knows that, yes, this is it, this is the moment he fucking dies.

As everything goes black, Theon hears Damon whine from another planet, “Skinner, what the fuck…”

Then there is no pain.

There is nothing.

Perhaps Theon is already dead, so he no longer has to live with how stupid he’s been.

_Robb was right._

* * *

 

* * *

 

When he wakes, it’s almost inexplicable; he’s dead isn’t he? He should be dead.

Coolness and a sliver of pain against his forehead causes him to open his eyes in surprise. A solemn man in his late fifties is leaning over him, gently patting his forehead with a wet cloth. Theon winces in pain, his forehead stinging. Everything feels like he got beaten by a two by four. Repeatedly. “You’re awake,” the man says calmly, an aged voice.

“Who are you? And, where am I?” Theon croaks, feeling like he hasn’t had water in days. His throat is scratchy, sore.

“I’m Wolkan. You are at the Dreadfort. I’ve been wondering when I would get to meet you.”

The words are ominous. Theon is left puzzled, anxious. He’s used to strangers knowing who he is via the band, but this is different. This is some fucked up guy patching Theon’s wounds in the Bolton stronghold. None of this can be positive.

“I don’t know who you are,” Theon repeats with an aching throat.

Theon shouldn’t be here. Theon shouldn’t even be alive.

“Of that I have no doubt. I know much about you though. I’ve heard more than I want to know, if I’m honest. This seems to be a time to be honest, doesn’t it, Theon?”

The way it’s worded strikes Theon as wrong. “Are you a fucking shrink?” He says as scathingly as he can.

The man is completely unfazed by his prickliness. All of Theon’s anger and bother seems to slide right off of Wolkan, like his emotions are just raindrops on a rain repellant coat. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I can pass as one. Though that is not my true purpose here in the service of Roose Bolton.”

Cold eyes, a stern face, a skeleton-like smile. An image of Roose Bolton flashes into Theon’s mind at Wolkan’s words and he shudders on the table he’s lying on. Strapped to, actually. When he tries to sit up, he’s held down. “Am I a prisoner then?”

“You are simply ‘unfortunate’, it seems.”

“Cryptic words, wise old man,” Theon says sarcastically.

“Cryptic, yes. Are you unfortunate? Yes. You’re going to be given a choice.” Wolkan places ice on Theon’s lips, swollen from a cut. “I don’t think you are the type to make the choice.”

“The type? You don’t even know me.”

“Well, perhaps I’m wrong. I know who your father is. You are a Greyjoy, after all. You would have changed your name if you truly wanted no part of your family.”

Anger slices through Theon, unreasonable and hot. “Don’t talk about my father,” Theon grits out from between clenched teeth.

At least if Theon dies, he won’t have to continue living as Balon’s failed progeny.

“Fathers are funny things, aren’t they? How they can change your perspective on life. How they can shape your interactions with the world? Good fathers can lift up their children, help them grow, like roses in strong soil. Bad fathers…however…often leave their children festering, destructive weeds full of bitterness and resentment.”

Theon swallows, glaring. This fucking stranger speaks like he knows him, like he knows all about his past. His words cut, even though he speaks calmly, gently. How can he see so far into Theon? How can he see the way that Balon Greyjoy left holes in Theon’s chest, gaping, sucking holes looking for any scrap of affection and admiration?

The doctor pauses, cocks his head at Theon’s physical reaction to his words. “Oh, you thought I was talking about you? Body language…can be such a giveaway for some people.”

_He wasn’t talking about me? What is up with this crazy fuck…_

_Was he talking about-_

“Where is he?” Theon says suddenly, a flash of thought.

This man, he must know who Theon is speaking of. This man is clearly an oracle of doom who knows everything.

“Ramsay is…elsewhere. He was quite distraught earlier,” Wolkan says carefully, picking his words slowly.

Disbelief and fury rise in Theon like boiling water in a pot. “He’s distraught? He’s _distraught_? What about me, I’m the one who’s fucking distraught!”

The man dabs some antibacterial on a small cotton ball and swipes it over what must be an ugly cut on Theon’s forehead, just hidden under his hair. It stings briefly, but the pain is almost meaningless. “His brand of distraught is quite different from yours, I’m afraid. I injected him with Propofol at his request, he’s most likely dozing off a bit or just relaxing. The sleep effects do not last long, but it does help with lowering blood pressure and anxiety.”

Something ugly coils in Theon’s belly, furious and betrayed. The very thought of Ramsay has him feeling wrath, has him feeling like some scorned woman sent from hell. “Oh, he has anxiety? Does that come from stringing people up like slabs of beef?”

The man sighs in this long-suffering fashion, like Theon is being utterly ridiculous. His watery eyes gaze down at Theon with little sympathy and Theon feels like he deserves some fucking sympathy. It’s the least this man could do. “He gets anxiety from things that he can’t control. Things like you. I warned him about this, you know. I did my best, but that can only go so far. He isn’t wired like you and I. He reacts very differently to negative stimuli.”

“I’ll say,” Theon mutters. “A normal person doesn’t just torture people to death in their nightclubs. I’d say his fucking ‘sadist in a kinky club’ mask is false.”

Wolkan checks Theon’s stomach, rolls up his jeans slightly to check his knees for bruises and cuts. “He is a sadist. But he is also so much more. He wears many masks; as is necessary to help him fit in and gain a sense of normalcy. You do realize that you are probably the closest thing he’s ever had to a normal relationship?”

Before Theon even dissects all of it, not sure he even wants to dissect it at all, he snaps, “How would you even know? Why would you even work here? With monsters?”

“I’m the medical professional serving the Bolton family. My family has served here for a few generations. Despite my general purpose, my latest burden has been taking care of Ramsay and keeping him out of trouble.”

“Well, good job. You’ve clearly done so well.” Sarcasm drips like venom from Theon’s lips.

The man ignores the barb, continuing to patch Theon up calmly. “It was once a straightforward job, though with the addition of Ramsay…things have become a little more difficult. His personality disorders make it rather hard for him to make human connections, but when he _does_ , he can be…”

“Controlling? Unreasonable?” Theon offers dryly. “Dangerous?”

Pieces of the puzzle start falling into place. Suddenly, things start making sense; the ownership, the mood swings, the need for complete domination and control. He’s never seen Ramsay take medicine, not once. Another hidden thing, not for Theon to see.

Wolkan smiles slightly, almost fondly. “Ah, yes. Those words describe him rather accurately. How did that make you feel? I imagine you had to know from the start what he was, even if you didn’t acknowledge it.”

Theon frowns. He’ll never say the words aloud. He will never admit to any of it, the darkest parts of himself. The fact remains; he liked how Ramsay made him feel. Theon liked being dominated, being owned like a prized trophy. Being needed with an unrestrained purpose. He loved the edge of terror just the same, the edge of walking into a cage with a tiger, not knowing if he’d walk out alive again.

Strange; he never knew how accurate that last statement was, how closely it mirrored reality.

“I imagine I’m lucky I never ended up in a body bag until now,” Theon says finally, voice empty of reflection.

The other man reads enough from his eyes. He pulls away from Theon, examining him with a critical eye, muttering, “It’s a pity things had to go this way.”

The tattooed demon marine, Skinner, appears in the doorway, a nightmare figure. When he speaks, the room shivers. “We’re ready for him downstairs.”

Wolkan steps away from Theon, giving him one last look. “He’s all yours. Let me know when it’s over. I imagine there is a small chance that Ramsay will be…inconsolable.”

“And if he is?”

The doctor sighs, like he’s weary of the whole world. He opens up one of his drawers and pulls out a syringe, a small amount of liquid inside of it already. “Tranquilize him. It’s 4AM, I don’t want to deal with him this early. He’ll wake up later if you use it.”

“Inconsolable over what?!” Theon yells as Skinner hauls him away.

Wolkan stares at him with this look that speaks volumes, a look that sends dread straight into Theon’s heart. “Goodbye, Theon.”

* * *

 

* * *

They tie Theon to a chair.

When they’re done, the men take up their places around the room, some leaning against the wall, others sitting on tables.

It’s the white room in the basement of the Dreadfort. The one where Ramsay fucked Theon for the first time. Theon almost laughs, it’s all so absurd. He really doesn’t want to remember this room that way. He tries to blink the memory away, hates the way it makes him feel inside.

Weak. Vulnerable. Broken.

Theon sits in his chair, the pain in his body an afterthought to the pain in his chest, sucking all the air from the room. The men are silent, all seemingly waiting. No one speaks, no one looks at Theon. He feels like he’s at the executioner block, waiting for the axe to swing.

To separate his head from his neck.

When the door to the room creaks open, the men straighten immediately before the newcomer even steps a foot inside. The atmosphere darkens, air becoming even more stifling.

He looks rough, that’s really the only way Theon can describe it. Theon sees the signs of a drug wearing off, the slow movements that weigh down Ramsay’s limbs, the slight, tired droop to his eyelids. The doctor really hadn’t been joking; he actually had put Ramsay out.

That familiar face, pale skin, midnight hair, icy eyes…Theon wants to close his eyes. There is bruising around Ramsay’s nose, under his eyes. No doubt from Theon’s kick to is face. Oh, he’s going to be mad that Theon did that. Briefly, Theon has the urge to sink to his knees and beg forgiveness, beg for a moderate punishment, but then he remembers why he’s here.

Ramsay is staring at him from across the room, slowly shutting the door behind himself. There is nothing in those eyes, a strange blankness, the emptiness that has always given Theon pause and concern. When the silence becomes too much, Theon croaks out, “Why am I here?”

Those lips turn downwards, nose wrinkling in displeasure. “You know why.”

Even his voice is thick with sleep.

Theon gives Ramsay a self-depreciating grin that he doesn’t quite feel, like he needs someone to move his lips for him. “Because I know what you are now, is that it? You know I wouldn’t have told. If you had just let me go.”

“Bullshit,” someone mutters from one of the corners of the room.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Theon yells in their general direction.

Ramsay ignores all of it, arms crossed over his chest as he stares into Theon’s soul in a disconcerting manner. “You know what I am? Do you _really_? Is that what you think?”

Theon stares up at him and for some reason he doesn’t see the memory of Ramsay holding guts in his hand; he instead remembers the way he looks when he orgasms. Remembers what he sounds like when he’s telling Theon who he belongs to, like he’s trying to remind Theon of the fact when really, it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Trying to soothe his own fears that Theon is _not_ his after all.

Lifting his eyebrows slightly, gaze rebellious, Theon says flatly, “I do. I know you and I see you, even the parts I’ve fucking ignored all this time.”

For a moment, Ramsay looks ill, like this isn’t the response he had been hoping for. _Well, guess what pal, this is what you’re getting,_ Theon thinks. _If you thought I would cry and beg, I’m too fucking pissed for that._

Ramsay’s tongue runs over his teeth briefly as he stares down at Theon, stance stiff and closed off. “Be as that may,” he says lowly, “There are always consequences to sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Theon flushes, has a million things he’d like to say if the room weren’t already filled with men. Men who probably have some sort of idea of what their relationship is truly like, but Theon doesn’t need to make it more obvious. Especially if some don’t know.

_What did you think, Ramsay? That we’d keep fucking and I’d never find out?_

_Like, oh, hey. Don’t mind the blood under my fingernails. Happened at work, the work you shouldn’t ask me about._

_Or, even worse. A year from now? Where could we have been then, if I didn’t know? When would you have told me? At dinner? When we’re screwing around in bed and you’re moaning all those nasty things that pop up in your head? Or maybe you figured you would never tell me._

_I think that’s it. You would have kept me and kept me in the fucking dark._

“Bully for me,” Theon says, trying to hide his growing fear. He knows what’s coming, he’s just trying to pretend it won’t happen. “I imagine you have my punishment already picked out?”

Those dead eyes cut into his flesh. “Not the kind you’d like.”

And there it is. Theon closes his eyes against the truth as it hits him in the face, swallows down a broken sound that almost comes up from his chest. This punishment is going to end up with him a corpse. “You know I never meant for any of this to happen,” he whispers sadly.

It’s true. He never meant to find himself a master. He never meant to build a soul crushing bond with another man. He never meant to nearly fall for a monster.

Ramsay’s jaw clenches as he tries to keep his emotions hidden from the room. “You have a choice. A choice only you can make. That’s more than I’ve given anyone.”

A bitter sound tears from Theon’s lips and he tastes bile on the back of his tongue. “A choice? I have a fucking choice? Oh, nice. _Thank you, Sir_.”

Damon backhands him, fire blossoming across Theon’s cheek on impact. He groans in pain, but grits his teeth against showing any other reaction to the brief assault on his person. Skinner grins from where he leans against the wall, teeth bright in the dim room, “This one is a mouthy cunt, eh? What compelled you to take him on, Ramsay?”

Ramsay doesn’t answer, his face strangely blank after watching Damon abuse Theon.

The big blonde scowls, rolling his eyes. “His dick, clearly. Bitch isn’t good for much else-”

Theon kicks out hard, only his arms tied behind the chair back, catching Damon in the crotch. Damon bends double with a shout of agony, cursing. Skinner laughs uproariously from his place, mouth wide and yawning as he does so, like a great white shark shooting out of the ocean. “Oh, I like him. He’s a bitch, but he’s feisty. I think he’ll settle in.”

“The hell he will!” Damon cries out, voice high.

Theon ignores them both, pulling against his restraints as he glares at Ramsay, tries to not feel the way his heart tightens at the sight of him. Lifting his lip, Theon says, “What is my choice?”

Those pale eyes flicker, staring at Theon with a cool intensity. There was a time that Theon thought that look was mysterious, perplexing even. Perhaps Ramsay playing hard to get. Now, Theon knows better. He knows what hides behind that gaze.

He knows what sort of monster sits behind those pupils, the bloodthirsty animal that thrives on the suffering of others. Those arctic eyes that always watched Theon with hunger as he submitted, always hiding a darker urge just beyond, just out of reach.

Those lids lower slightly, Ramsay looking at him from behind his dark lashes. “You can die. Or you can work for my father and all of this goes away.”

Blinking, Theon nearly chokes on his own saliva. _What? What does that even fucking mean?_

His throat tightens, flexing roughly with instant revulsion, a physical reaction that he cannot even hope to hide. Damon sees it and sneers, hand still clutching at his bruised crotch. “Ramsay, he’s not the type. Look at him. He’s a fucking useless crybaby who probably hid behind his mother anytime something got rough.”

Irritation flashes through Theon in time with rising fear. It’s hard to know what to feel; anger or terror. He’s being given an impossible decision. A choice he cannot possibly make. Another game. Another game that he cannot win.

_You love being the sacrifice, you always knew you would end up here. Don’t lie._

Skinner pushes away from the wall and squints down at Theon with a cruel smile. The tattoos on his wrists look like rings of daggers, all pointing towards his heart. “I don’t know, Damon. I think you’re just jealous that he might do a better job than you. He’s got the heart for it; he’s desperate. Scrappy, even.”

Ramsay is silent, giving nothing away. His eyes keep going in and out of focus, like he’s finding it hard to stay awake. The aftereffects of the drugs the crazy quack gave him, no doubt.

“I don’t want to work with Princess; his face pisses me off,” Damon complains to the tattooed man.

Having enough of being spoken of like he’s nothing more than a child, Theon hisses, “In case you motherfuckers have forgotten; I already have a job. I’m a fucking Rockstar!”

Face twisting, Damon snaps, all teeth and furious eyes, “You’re a fucking whore.”

Almost in slow motion, Ramsay throws his fist into Damon’s face, emotionlessly. Blood spatters onto the ground, the blonde man’s lip split open widely against his teeth. “Shut up,” Ramsay says quietly.

Damon spits blood and looks up at Ramsay in nervous surprise, “But, boss…”

“Do I need to take your tongue out and make you swallow it?” Ramsay snarls, staring Damon down until the blonde shrinks in submission.

In silence.

He takes a few measure steps forward until he is standing in front of Theon. Ramsay crouches down so that he’s level with Theon, his hazy eyes staring into Theon’s sea-green gaze. He smells of sweat and skin, his cologne absent. He smells the way he does when he wakes up next to Theon, his natural scent that always wrapped around Theon, holding him tight.

Theon’s heart aches, screaming. It doesn’t want to acknowledge that this man is a monster, because Theon’s heart is a stupid fool and his heart finds comfort just looking at the beast in front of him. Those hands, the ones that had been covered in blood; his heart remembers the way those fingertips feel running across his skin. Soft and reverent, hungry.

“Was that your answer?” Ramsay asks it softly, eyes half-lidded again with that damned predator laziness.

Baring his teeth, Theon says, “I didn’t give you an answer.”

“But I think you did.”

Taking in a deep breath, knowing it means his doom, Theon exhales as he says the deathly words that sign his death warrant. “I won’t be a criminal.”

Those dangerous lips twitch hazardously as Ramsay tries to keep some reaction down. “It’s not really that hard, Theon. We wouldn’t even ask that much of you. Just enough to keep you from falling on Father’s fucking radar.”

“I’m not working for your daddy dearest motherfucker.” Enunciating the words clearly, Theon says, “You’re just going to have to kill me.”

Finally, that ugly look rips across Ramsay’s face, eating away the calm and sanity. “Oh, you’d just rather die? You’d rather throw everything we made away, everything we are, just because you saw some lowlife and his thieving insides on my dungeon floor?”

The words are like knives, digging into Theon’s stomach with searing intensity. Theon doesn’t want any of this; he doesn’t want to let go and he sure as hell doesn’t want to die.

“What sort of person would that make me? If I stayed?” Theon whispers softly. “If I closed my eyes?”

Ramsay frowns, eyes widening as if the answer is obvious. “That would make you mine.”

His and his alone. The trophy of a monster, the trophy of a sadist who thrives on torture and blood. He’d build a beautiful gold cage for Theon, his prized possession, all while the world bleeds around them. A part of Theon wants it; the other half tells him what he wants is wrong.

Tells him that he’s sick, there’s something fucked up in his head, so wrong that he let a torturer into his bed with a sigh.

_And despite it all, you still want him._

“I couldn’t live with myself,” Theon’s voice breaks.

_Liar. You’d find a way to live with yourself. You’re lying to yourself._

Hands land on his knees, Ramsay’s face not far from Theon’s. He’s looking up at Theon, all the shades of stone and iron in his gaze clear to the naked eye. He leans up, lips coming close to Theon’s ear, so close that Theon can feel the heat of his skin, close to his.

Oh, God. He wants to lean into Ramsay, wants to bury his face in his neck and disappear. He wants his master to tell him everything is alright.

“Don’t do this to me,” Ramsay breathes in his ear, the first sign of vulnerability.

He’s _begging_. It cuts right to Theon’s core, eats him from the inside out, collapses him like a skyscraper in an earthquake.

Theon turns his face slightly, so that his cheek brushes against Ramsay’s as he replies quietly, because he wants to set the record straight. “I’m not doing this to _you_ ; you’ve done this to _us_.”

Ramsay stiffens as if physically struck, standing up quickly, turning his back to Theon.

The men share nervous glances, seeing something on Ramsay’s face that Theon cannot see. Doesn’t want to see.

After a moment, Ramsay glances over his shoulder at Theon, the remnants of something dark bleeding off of his face, out of his eyes. The vicious, damaged look says, _you’d rather die than be with me?_

Theon isn’t sure that the answer is actually ‘yes’. That’s the problem; he isn’t sure at all and that makes him a monster too, doesn’t it? Theon watches warily as Ramsay turns around once more to face him, expression schooled again. Ramsay took Theon and made him a monster, a monster to stand beside his own. Theon isn’t sure he can forgive him for that.

Ramsay cracks his neck idly, the line of his neck stretching one way and then another. Theon’s eyes can’t help but watch that pale flesh. God, he wants to sink his teeth in hard, wants to sink he teeth in and tear that fucking pale throat out.

He wants to dance in Ramsay’s fucking blood for how he’s played him. Ramsay played him like a fucking puppet, made Theon dance to whatever fucking tune he wanted. Red spills across Theon’s gaze and his teeth grind together as he stares at the other man whose eyes have now drifted back to Theon.

A strange, unpleasant smile twists those familiar lips as Ramsay looks at him; like he knows the dark place that Theon’s mind has gone to. Like he doesn’t care. Like it is all just another fucking game, one of those inhuman games that give him so much pleasure and joy while everyone else suffers.

It’s in that moment that he truly embodies the monster in Theon’s mind, the one that Theon craves and fears, the one he wrote about oh so long ago.

_Phantom._

 “Have it your way,” Ramsay says sweetly, though there is nothing sweet in those murderous eyes. “The hunt it is. Alyn; prepare my horse.”

Numbness spreads across Theon’s chest at the words, eating his initial emotions away. _Ah. So, it’s to be a medieval affair then. I would have preferred dying by the sea._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Oh shizz. Hope you all enjoyed! Comments and kudos fuel me!! 
> 
> Please note, I am going on vacation in a few days, so there will **not be an update next weekend.** I repeat, there will not be an update next weekend. My husband and I are going away for our anniversary and I won't be bringing a laptop. However, I will probably bring a notebook and will be jotting down everything that comes to my mind while on the beach, so hopefully I'll have the next chapter mostly written by the time I get back the last week of July. 
> 
> I know the wait will be painful and of course this had to be somewhat of a cliffhanger, but never fear, the update will arrive two weeks from now. WE ARE SO CLOSE TO THE FINISH LINE *screams incoherently*


	20. Fill the Dawn with Crimson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> **AN:** Yes. I am back from vacation! Enjoy and go cry. I have tissues. 
> 
> **Trigger Warning:** There is a VERY brief mention of **watersports** in this chapter, super fucking brief. This is also a mention of **cutting** and **suicidal thoughts**. All brief.

_They’re in one of the playrooms and Ramsay has convinced Theon that they should put on a show. “I’ll wear that mask you like,” Ramsay says persuasively. “You can wear the blindfold. The majority of anyone who watches won’t be able to tell that it’s us. Besides, even if they did, who wants to admit they watched us fucking?”_

_Theon’s wrists are tied, a cord connecting his bound hands to the wall in front of him. He’s on his knees, ass presented. “If that’s what you want, Sir. I’d prefer to not be watched.”_

_Anyone who actually knows them will know it’s them in the room, despite the mask and the blindfold. Everyone else though; it will just be a mystery, a pair of bodies on display for their amusement. Theon’s ass already hurts from being paddled brutally, and two deep cuts are on his right thigh._

_Ramsay must be aroused, must want to bring Theon along with him._

_The other man smirks. “You don’t want them to see who you really are. Not your fucking face; you. But, I see you. I know what you need.”_

_So, there comes the Call of Duty ghost mask and Theon’s blindfold. Then, Ramsay fiddles with something on the wall and the mirror becomes a two way window, so the freakier people who like to spy on the private rooms can observe._

_It’s fucking twisted and Theon’s belly curls with unwanted arousal at the idea of others watching him being dominated._

_...there’s very little preparation, but at least there’s lube and Ramsay whispering all the typical disgusting things in Theon’s ear…_

_His thumbs begin to push into Theon alongside his cock, filling Theon further, almost uncomfortably. He’s making himself feel even more girthy, his thumbs stretching Theon out. Theon moans in discomfort, beginning to get nervous. What if he tears? What if-_

_“The things I want to do to you,” Ramsay rasps in his ear so that no one can hear. “Fuck, I love humiliating you. Filthy slut. Remember when we first met? How I said you’d want me to piss on you, that I’d bet you’d beg for it eventually?”_

_“Never happened,” Theon grunts, gritting his teeth, his sensitive entrance fluttering around Ramsay’s cock and thumbs. “And I’m not asking. Sir.”_

_He keeps it short and simple, doesn’t say no outright, because he knows that Ramsay will do something awful if he does._

_“I want to do it to you,” Ramsay says thickly, resting his forehead on Theon’s back as he thrusts harder. “I want to mark you, like I’m a fucking dog and you’re mine.”_

_The idea of it fills Theon with revulsion, but at the same time he’s surprised that Ramsay admitted to wanting something like that. He always was the one to make it seem like Theon was the sick fuck who lived for humiliation, that Ramsay would just ‘go along’ with it._

_“Ramsay,” he mutters, wanting to tell him it’s awful, he doesn’t want it, trying to keep his mind straight as Ramsay slams into his prostate repeatedly._

_“Fuck,” Ramsay hisses, pulling out suddenly._

_It only takes Theon a minute to realize that Ramsay didn’t cum, but is instead pissing directly between his legs onto the floor. Humiliation spreads through Theon even though he’s blindfolded; he knows people are watching them and there’s no mistaking what Ramsay is doing._

_Degrading him. Debasing him. Claiming him in the filthiest way that Ramsay can dream up._

_Briefly, Theon is glad that Ramsay didn’t actually do it on him, glad he chose to slide his dick between Theon’s legs in a parody of intercourse. Ramsay’s hips move slightly and his teeth are in Theon’s shoulder. Theon flushes red, embarrassed at how disgusting they must be._

_A hand wraps around Theon’s cock and with a sudden shock, he orgasms uncontrollably, crying out his release with a surprised note._

_“I knew you’d fucking love it, you filthy fucking girl,” Ramsay sneers with a fond note._

_Then, his cock is back inside of Theon’s wet and hard. Ramsay wastes no time humping him again and Theon arches his back, spreads his legs further. Ramsay’s panting heavily, breath hot on the nape of Theon’s neck and now-_

-and now Theon’s on his knees, outside in the cool early morning air, glowering at the very same man. Stretching before Theon is the endless grass and trees surrounding the Dreadfort proper, the very same forests that Roose Bolton conducts his hunts in. It seems that this time, Theon is to be the prey.

Only, Ramsay will be the only hunter this morning. He commanded all his men to stay back.

“It’s too bad,” Damon says nastily, “I was hoping to watch you die.”

“Yeah,” Theon replies, “I was hoping the same about you.”

The blonde man scowls and goes to hit Theon, but Skinner grabs Damon by the arm and yanks him away hard. “Leave it. He’s not for you,” Skinner says blandly.

Ramsay is beside the group on horseback, looking ready for a true hunt. Theon briefly hates him; why does he have to look so good when he’s about to do something so completely awful? Theon feels and looks like roadkill and Ramsay is going to run him down like it too.

He’s barely glanced at Theon, as if unable to look at him. Theon keeps throwing him betrayed, desperate glances, wishing that Ramsay could just make all of this go away. Still, Ramsay remains distant, uninterested. Ready to end Theon’s life.

That hurts, a knife to Theon’s heart, digging in painfully with every heartbeat.

The man called Alyn hands Ramsay a rifle and Theon watches as Ramsay checks the chamber for ammo. He must make some small noise because Ramsay glances up from his task, his black gloves ominous on the weapon. Those eyes land on Theon’s and Theon almost can’t breathe.

“You’d best start running or the game won’t be very fun,” Ramsay drawls coldly. “My horse is rather fast.”

His pale eyes are whirlwinds of murder and cold fury.

Blankly, Theon stares at all the men around him in shock. It’s really happening. He’s going to be ridden down, shot and killed. By the man he’s been with for a year. He can’t even grasp the fact. Theon’s limbs are frozen momentarily by sheer terror, afraid that once he starts running it will all be over. It’s going to be over so fast, his life is flashing before his eyes…

Ramsay snaps the bolt action on his rifle and points it at Theon. He looks at Theon down the sight, snarling, “I told you to _run_!”

The spell is broken. Theon stands up and flees.

For the second time in a short few hours, Theon is running for his life once more. Through the forest he runs, smacking into low hanging branches and shrubs. He tries his best to not roll his ankle on the uneven ground, but it is a tough effort.

He hears the pounding of hooves somewhere behind him, knows Ramsay is coming to take his fucking head.

Spurred on by this knowledge, he goes for the uneven ground even though it’s treacherous for him; it’s more difficult for a horse to safely cruise through the rough sections of a forest. If he can lose Ramsay and the horse-

A loud crack breaks the air and a tree throws bark at him from somewhere. Theon nearly stops moving; that motherfucker shot at him!

_Of course, he’s shooting at you, Theon,_ he thinks to himself, _he’s trying to kill you!_

Vaguely, he knows that Ramsay must have better aim than that; the man hunts for fun and kills people for work. He’s playing with Theon; he’s trying to scare him more than he already has. Ramsay loves fear and he knows that fear leads to mistakes.

Theon can’t make a mistake. If he can just sneak away, escape somehow, maybe he can survive the night.

Another loud shot cracks through the forest and Theon has to bite down a yell of terror, ducking down. Without another thought, he takes off again, trying to remember what direction the main road is in. If he can flag someone down, maybe he can get out of here alive.

No fucking chance though.

He stumbles and falls down a slight incline, yelping as he smacks into a tree. The sound alerts Ramsay, somewhere, wherever he is. Theon pushes himself back up and ignores the pain racking his flesh. He’s got a few cuts and bruises, but he’s had worse.

He’ll be dead if he doesn’t stay tough.

Theon zig zags loudly through the brush, knows the hunter somewhere behind him must be able to hear his ridiculous thrashing. Terror races through him, afraid of what it will feel like to be shot. It’s dark irony; he’s been hung from hooks, beaten, kidnapped, he’s dealt with some horror in his time. Yet, he fears the sting of the bullet in his back.

It seems so final, after all.

Anger and fear fuel him, alongside all the disappointment that has been wracking his soul. The forest is deep, but Theon makes good ground, or so he thinks anyway. He’s not sure how far he’s gone, but his legs and feet ache. His thoughts and fears are his only companions.

That and the bloodthirsty horseman somewhere in the forest, searching for him.

Ramsay shoots a few more times, though the bullets are never close to Theon. It must be a flush out action, trying to make Theon break his cover and run into the open, into Ramsay’s sight. It means Ramsay still doesn’t see him.

Exhaustion and betrayal nip at Theon’s heels; how did this happen to him?

There’s light ahead, the edge of the forest near. Theon gasps in relief, almost disbelieving. He may actually make it out. He can’t hear the thunder of hooves, maybe he actually lost Ramsay in the forest.

He runs towards what appears to be the path to the exit of the forest, towards where cars will be, then the large body of a horse blocks his way. Just like that, Theon is staring into the dark rifle, facing his death.

Theon makes to run, to dodge and flee again, but Ramsay fires a warning shot. The crack of the rifle is nearly deafening up close. For a moment, Theon fears that he’s been shot, but the bullet only grazed his side, keeping him from running any further.

Hot blood trickles from the small, burning wound.

_I was so close…_

Hope dies. Disappears. He was never meant to leave this forest alive. Ramsay is too good a hunter. Any hope Theon had was false; given to him as a ploy. The fear and anger that Theon feels is dizzying. “So, this is how it all fucking ends,” Theon yells at him, body shaking with terror and adrenaline. “Just going to gun me down and throw me away like yesterday’s trash?”

“This is your fault. It didn’t have to go this way,” Ramsay says harshly, snapping the bolt action to eject the used shells from earlier. He begins idly reloading his gun.

His horse snorts, sidestepping anxiously. This doesn’t seem to deter Ramsay at all, the skilled horseman simply moving with the animal, swaying in the saddle with the movement.

“You’re a liar,” Theon hisses, walking backwards slowly until he hits a tree with his back. “You could have let me go.”

“No, I couldn’t have.”

“That’s an excuse-”

“I couldn’t have, because my father would have found out. His way would be far worse.”

“Well, then you could have at least drowned me in the sea where I belong!” Theon snarls furiously, voice rising dangerously.

Ramsay’s lip lifts, like a hound showing teeth. “You belong with me. You chose death.”

With those dark words, he lifts the gun again, angling his horse sideways. Ramsay points, aim utterly steady. Seeing the hateful look in those pale, ghostly eyes, Theon sinks to his knees, suddenly weak. Lost. He stares at the other man, wonders how all of this could have gone so wrong so fast. Ramsay stares at him from down the barrel of the gun, a sneer on his face.

Theon hates how much he wishes things could just go back to how they were. He wishes he had never seen what he saw. He wants Ramsay to stop looking at him like that, to stop looking at Theon like he hates him when Theon wishes he would just take him in his arms and tell him it was all just an awful game-

“Close your eyes,” Ramsay snarls furiously, voice nearly cracking, “Stop looking at me like that!”

Theon shuts his eyes, because what else can he do? His fate has been sealed. His shaking hands drift to his chest and he pulls at the neck of his shirt, baring his heart. “Don’t miss,” he breathes out shakily.

Deep down, he’s terrified. He put on the bravest front he could, but inside Theon is afraid. His time has come, death is glaring down at him from astride a horse, like a monster. He wonders if the bullet will hurt. He hopes that Ramsay will be quick about it.

He hears a soft thud; Ramsay most likely dismounting from his horse. The sound of Ramsay’s leather gloves tightening on the gun. Every sound is amplified, every smell in the air. Theon inhales sharply, waiting for the end to come.

This is it. The bullet will tear through his flesh and Ramsay will leave him to bleed out in the dirt. Maybe he’ll feed Theon to the hounds. Sounds like something he would do. Something disgusting and awful.

Then he feels it; the cold sensation of the barrel of the gun being pressed to his forehead. “Oh, God,” Theon gasps, terrified.

He won’t cry, he won’t fucking cry, just take it like a man…

A few painful seconds pass with Theon shaking like a leaf, wishing so many things could be changed, wishing things could just go back to the way they were, for better or worse.

Then, the gun pulls away from his skin and arms wrap around him, one around his back and the other tangled in the hair on the back of his head. Theon’s eyes snap open in shock, all of the air in his lungs leaving him in a rush.

That familiar scent of forest and skin surrounds him and he trembles, hates himself, sees Ramsay wrapped around him tightly, like an iron manacle in human form. Ramsay doesn’t smell like blood and Theon can almost pretend none of it ever happened.

Except he can’t.

“What have you fucking done to me?” Ramsay rasps into Theon’s neck. “You’ve ruined me.”

Theon is shaking, terrified, still not safe yet. Was he ever safe in these arms? “I’ve done nothing to you-”

Those arms tighten almost painfully and Theon can barely breathe. “Now is the time for you to shut your mouth,” Ramsay utters darkly, voice like a nightmare.

Anger cuts through his fear. Theon unwisely pushes Ramsay away with a furious snarl punches him in the gut harmlessly. “You don’t get to tell me to shut my mouth anymore,” Theon yells with hysteria. “You don’t get to hug me and pretend this can all go away. You can’t hide _what you are_ from me anymore!”

Ramsay tackles him, bringing Theon flat on his back. Ramsay straddles his chest and grabs Theon’s face in his gloved hands tightly, digging into his flesh. Those terrifying eyes stare down at him maddeningly as Ramsay roughly says, “You’re right. I should just fucking carve your face off and wear it like a goddamn mask. But I won’t. I’d rather cut you open and crawl inside of your skin, so we’d be one.”

“Fucking hell, just shoot me already,” Theon wails, “I’m tired of your sick mind games. I’m tired of it, Ramsay. I’m fucking tired. Just give me the fucking bullet if cutting me up is what you have planned for me.”

Snarling, Ramsay brings his face close to Theon’s, his eyes laying Theon bare. He digs a knife out from somewhere and holds it to Theon’s throat. Theon swallows roughly, feeling his heart speed up. Shit. Fuck. He shouldn’t have antagonized him…

“Make it clean,” Theon begs, eyes watering. “If I meant anything to you, don’t make me suffer before I die. Not anymore.”

He regrets not being able to see Robb and the band one last time. Even that chode, Gendry.

Ramsay glares down at him, presses the knife in roughly, just barely enough to break skin. Theon closes his eyes, doesn’t want to watch-

The knife disappears.

“Get out of here,” Ramsay rasps, eyes murderous, the early dawn light glittering like fire in his irises. “Before I change my mind. And remember; this is me, showing you mercy.”

Theon stares at him in shock. _He’s letting…he’s letting me go? Is this a trick?_

He gazes into those familiar, dangerous eyes. Looks deep into them, trying to fathom all the things he could never claim to understand. All the darkness and horror in those pupils, never fully in sight. Theon sees the truth there, in those eyes. Now that he’s trying so hard to see it, to understand.

Ramsay is letting him go; and it’s killing him to do it. The decision hangs by a mere thread and at any moment Ramsay might snap and change his mind. Theon stands up on shaky legs and takes a few steps backwards even though his heart wants him to walk forwards. “Ramsay,” his whispers, the weak part of him still not able to accept all that has transpired.

The other man’s lip curls nastily. Ramsay flinches away, hands clenching into fists. “Did I stutter?”

That tone reminds Theon of many dark, glorious nights in the dungeon. The very dungeon that Ramsay tortures people to death in. The realization helps Theon leap into action. Without another glance, he turns and runs.

He runs and hopes that he doesn’t get shot in the back. In fact, he waits for it to happen.

The sound of rifle fire never comes and Theon leaves Ramsay far behind.

Even as relief overtakes Theon, a different ache fills him as the distance between them grows. Despite the hope that fills him, despair is like a wet blanket around his body.  
  


* * *

 

He follows the road under the early dawn light, exhausted. Theon’s feet ache, his lungs are tired and ready to give up on functioning. He has long since realized that he has nothing in his pockets that could possibly help him; he’s got no phone and no money.

Theon might not be dead, but he is pretty well fucked for the time being.

That and the fact that the man he’s been with for the past two months turned out to be _quite_ the criminal. Everything’s fine. Everything’s _great._ Ramsay may have spared him for now, but that doesn’t mean dick. Theon shudders; he could be looking over his shoulder all his life at this rate.

He got tangled with the wrong guy and that’s a fucking understatement.

A vision of blood and gore flashes into his head again and Theon feels disturbed, bothered, upset. There are some things people should simply not see. Those are usually the things you cannot un-see as well, it turns out.

He walks and walks, following the main road that he found some time after leaving Ramsay behind. There has to be a place on this street somewhere, someplace that he can use a phone to call for help. He needs to get far away.

After another forty-five minutes of walking, his feet aching, he sees a small building coming up around the corner, just beyond the trees of the forest.

A gas station; he nearly sags in relief. _They’ll have a phone._

Mustering his remaining energy, spurred by hope, Theon weakly trots over to the building, carefully eyeing the cars at the pumps. No one gives him a second look, despite his disheveled appearance. No one cares who he is or that he probably needs help.

Typical. Not that Theon can entirely blame them; he would have avoided some strange ruffian from the forest too.

However, this at least means that no one from the Dreadfort is here looking for him. A very weak surge of excitement lifts his spirits; he may still make it out of this. Then, his heart sinks right back down to the bottom, because Theon knows what he has to do next.

Knows who he has to call next. Knows where he has to go. The very thought makes him ill, makes his insides twist up like a knot.

He stumbles into the gas station and walks over to the attendant. The woman is looking at him with nervous suspicion and Theon is ashamed that he must smell awful and look terrible. Running for your life half the night will do that to a man, but what does she know?

Theon starts to speak, but his tongue is dry, his throat parched. He coughs into his fist briefly. “Excuse me. Could I please use the phone to make a call?”

Her nose wrinkles, but she looks him up and down. He’s got blood on him and twigs in his hair. What a sight. “Sure, right around the corner. Be quick about it.”

Nodding, Theon goes to the phone, elated that it isn’t a pay phone. He dials the number from memory and places the phone against his ear, heart pounding madly. After a few rings go by, he gets nervous that perhaps the call won’t go through, perhaps he really is shit out of luck and will be trapped here begging for money or begging for a ride when-

The ringing stops and someone picks up.

Theon sighs in relief and speaks.  
  


* * *

 

The taxi that comes to pick him up is prepaid. The drive is long, long enough to make Theon close his eyes finally. He’s not had a moments rest, not since the nightmarish night hours before. Heck, he’s probably been up for nearly twenty-four hours at this point and exhaustion tugs at him desperately.

The drive lasts maybe an hour, but time isn’t something that Theon is tracking at this point. When the car stops, Theon wakes up, surveying his new surroundings. The taxi has brought him to the docks where a silhouette waits for him with a cocked hip. Theon sighs and exits the cab, walking towards the person waiting for him.

He can smell the sea, just beyond.

“You look like hell, baby brother,” his sister says in greeting, eyes roving up and down his form with concern.

Theon stops just in front of her, staring at her familiar face. He almost wants to break down and cry like a little bitch and tell her all of his woes, but that would be rather pathetic of him. That wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t endear him to Yara.

Instead, he forces a sick grin on his lips, one that feels foreign on his face. “Yeah? I’ve gotten that impression.”

He sees it in her eyes that she knows he’s playing tough. She steps forward and embraces him warmly, tightly. Theon gasps, tries to keep his emotions down. Just being in her arms makes him feel like the whole world is falling down around him.

He’s lost, he’s so lost and this is the only place he knows to go when he’s lost. She’s like a lighthouse to his lost ship.

“You remind me of a stubborn sailor who loves the sea more than he loves land,” she breathes into his ear. “You have to come home sometime, Theon. You’ve got to come back to port.”

His insides tighten, chest feeling crushed and painful. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

 She steps away, a hand brushing his cheek gently. “You will always have us, even if you don’t believe you do. Come on, it’s time to board the ferry over. But hell; you stink! I ought to dip you in the sea first.”

Theon groans. “Don’t. I might just let the ocean take me at this point.”

When they cross over to the islands, Theon tries to ignore the anxious feeling that builds with every breath he takes. He doesn’t want to see his father. Above all else, he can only hope that his father is away on business.

Yara watches him from the corner of her eye, as if she sees the way he tenses as their home island comes closer into view. “He’s not home. Lucky you,” she utters dryly.

He sighs and rests his head on the railing, thanking whatever lucky stars he has left. There is only one thing that could make all of this worse and that’s his father. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he lies out of habit.

Yara snorts, sees the lie for what it is. “He’s away on business. Should be gone for a while. How long do you plan on staying this time?”

Theon doesn’t lift his head. “Not sure. A few weeks maybe. Just until he gets back, I suppose.”

“That’s rather childish of you.”

“I really don’t give a flying fuck,” Theon grouses as the ferry docks, coming to a stop.

Theon hasn’t been home in a long time and just stepping off the ferry is like forcing his legs to move through quicksand. Their home is close to port, it isn’t a long walk. He follows behind Yara, eyeballing the house up on the top of the hill, overlooking the sea.

Upon entering his childhood home, Theon feels…odd. Like a stranger in his own home. He can almost see memories of his childhood playing out through the room. Yara pretending to be a pirate captain, Rodrik chasing Maron down the stairs loudly, wielding a pirate sword.

His mother, quietly reading in the front sun room.

His father, always locked in his study.

“Hey,” Yara says, touching his shoulder softly. “Get some sleep. Don’t worry about anything; just let it all go. Take all the time you need.”

“Thanks, Yara,” he mutters, giving her a weak smile.

She stares at him with this strange expression in her gaze. “You know that I know who you were involved with, right?”

“You always know.”

“Bolton did this to you?”

“He let me go,” Theon says, barely a croak.

He doesn’t want to think about him right now. Hell, he doesn’t want to think about him ever again.

Yara scowls. Then, she nods to him shortly and turns away, heading back outside, leaving him alone.

Theon sighs and nearly crawls up the old creaky stairs, wooden and loud. He’s reached his limit of exhaustion; he can barely keep his eyes open. He’s ready to sleep on the floor if he has to. He walks straight past his old room, feels like that bed belongs to another boy in another life. He doesn’t fit in his own flesh anymore, not like he used to. Ramsay took what he was and made him into something else.

Instead, he opens the door to Maron’s room, peers into the ominous dark. He knows the room has been mostly left alone since Maron’s death. It should be exactly the way his brother left it. The room is like a tomb and it fits how Theon feels in this very moment.

He wants to lay himself to rest, RIP, chain himself to the bottom of the sea.

The bedroom of a dead young man is as good a mausoleum as any.

Theon kicks off his dirty shoes and rips off his shirt. The small trickle of blood from the graze mark on his side has long since stopped bleeding. He lays down on top of the covers and rests his head on Maron’s pillow. He inhales once, wonders if he can smell his brother still. He can’t, Maron’s been dead too fucking long.

He’s asleep just as that thought finishes.  
  


* * *

 

A week passes with very little change. The house is mostly silent aside from the coming and goings of Yara. All of Balon’s associates always met with him by the Island’s docks for business, so Theon thankfully never saw any of them.

For the most part, he is left to his own miserable devices, which suits him fine. He’s capable of moping himself into an early grave, if he puts his mind to it. Mostly, he’s glad to be out of sight. He feels like there’s a sign printed on his face, a sign that reads, ‘I fucked a sadistic murdering fuck for a few months and I liked it’. Theon feels like everyone knows how blind he’s been.

Yara hasn’t said anything about it. Theon knows that she knows something, but she isn’t one to dive her nose in the business of others, especially when it isn’t wanted. She’s always been that way; she always knows when to push and when to be patient. The ebb and flow of the ocean tide.

Theon spends most of his time lying on Maron’s bed, staring at the ceiling. Or staring out at the sea, just beyond the window. He feels numb, like all of his limbs have died. All of his emotions burned hot until they burned out completely, tasteless ash in his mouth.

This numb feeling; he recognizes it as depression. Or grief.

Yeah. It’s probably grief. Those five stages and all that shit. He went through them all rather fast, but now he’s fucking stuck on feeling nothing. Denial happened in a heartbeat, tangled with horror. Denial still rides him, like a parasite, twisting all of his memories, making him second guess everything.

Was it all just a lie? It couldn’t have been, right? Was it all just wasted time spent with a monster who felt nothing at all for him? Is it really possible that Theon could have felt _so much_ and Ramsay could have felt _so little_?

The very thought of it used to choke him with rage. His anger burned hot, fierce and unmerciful. At the heart of it, Theon felt a mixture of betrayal and humiliation. The burning sting that kept telling him, _how could you have been so blind? So fucking stupid? You knew what he was, it was right in front of your nose!_

_How could he do this to me? This wasn’t supposed to happen. I want him to suffer as bad as I have._

That anger followed him through the forest as he ran for his life. In fact, that anger probably kept him alive, but what does Theon know? Nothing, apparently. That emotion burned his insides raw, the flames screaming their agony under his flesh.

The bargaining stage he flew past. He knows the stages of grief are often not linear, but he found himself begging for this all to go away, for this all to be some bad nightmare. Wishing he had never met Ramsay in the first place. All the way to wishing he had died with his brothers so he could never feel the pain that he’s feeling now.

And here he is. Empty of everything. Listless and vacant, caring about nothing. Recognizing the scary effects that depression is having on him and not caring because he can’t feel enough to care. The endless cycle of misery.

_But, Ramsay let you go. He chose to let you live. That has to count for something._

_I don’t care. Shut up. I don’t care._

He finds one of Rodrik’s switchblades in Rodrik’s shared bathroom with Maron. He cuts into his arm, trying to feel something, anything. All the crimson blood does is remind him of the person he’s been trying so hard to forget. There is no pain, just nothing.

The bleeding stops, eventually. It isn’t deep enough to actually warrant help of any sort. Theon simply walks back to Maron’s room, clutching his wounded arm to his chest and lets it bleed freely on his chest as he lies back down on his back.

It had been a pointless exercise; Theon is well aware.

Normally, he would bury this all with drugs and alcohol, women…but…that all seems so far away now. More bad choices in his endless list of bad decisions.

Now he can add Ramsay’s name to that fucking long list.

Occasionally, Yara will pop her head into his solitude and stare at him sternly. Playing an angry mother, of course. “I don’t care if you want to be a bitch; just fucking eat something,” Yara snaps matter-of-factly.

Food appears outside the door; sometimes he eats it, sometimes he doesn’t. He’s not really hungry.

As the second week of his stay in his old home begins, Theon finally drags himself out of Maron’s room to wander around the house and the island. This eventually proves to be a mistake. His father comes home from his business trip and catches him coming down the stairs one morning.

Theon’s heart almost freezes at the sight of his father, waiting for him at the base of the stairs. The man is staring up at him with a firm set to his lips, eyes hard as he stares up at his remaining son. For a moment, they say nothing, they just stare at each other. Then, Balon breaks the silence, his condescending, croaky voice achingly familiar. “Ah. My long absent spawn returns. Decided to grace this proud house with your presence finally, did you now?”

The words are meant to cut. They do. Theon tightens his lips, clenches his jaw. Through gritted teeth, he replies with vocal cords that aren’t used to speaking anymore, “I had the distinct impression that I wasn’t welcome here.”

Balon gives him a hard look and then scoffs, shaking his head. “Of course you did. You always wanted to be treated like the second coming and found yourself disappointed when you weren’t. Has anything changed, I wonder?”

With that, his father storms past the stairway, moving towards his study.

Theon gapes after him furiously, feeling something for the first time in days. For a moment, he considers just letting it go, but then after standing like a gaping fish on the stairs, he barrels down the remaining steps and follows his father.

“I haven’t been home in years and that’s what you open with? That I’m a spoiled brat?” Theon spits the words out like poison.

His father is sitting at his desk, scowling at him. “Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? You never could swallow the truth. Weak, just like your mother.”

Theon’s face twists, rage curling in his belly. The strong emotion is welcome, makes him feel more alive than he has in days. “I am not weak. I’ve never been fucking spoiled and you damn well know it.”

Balon rolls his eyes mockingly. “You were always getting in the way. You always wanted more than you were due, a greedy boy who couldn’t see his place in the world. You never wanted to contribute to this family; you just wanted what you thought you were owed.”

Disbelief slices through Theon. He almost picks up a nearby paperweight, almost picks it up to fling it at his father. Or break his fucking window. The man has always been a stubborn goat; perhaps that’s where Theon gets it from. “I wanted to be loved! Like any normal child would have wanted from their own parent! The crap that you say is not reality!” Theon falters, feels ill. Almost can’t speak the next words. His voice cracks painfully. “I loved you. And you treated me like I was nothing.”

“You were nothing like your brothers. Not even like your sister. You’re something else entirely.”

An ugly feeling takes over Theon as he stares in disbelief. So, it’s back to this then. The accident; Rodrik and Maron. “All my life, you made me believe I wasn’t worthy of being your son. You made me believe that it was all my fault that Maron and Rodrik died. I’ve carried that weight on my shoulders since the day they were killed.”

Silence falls over them. Theon stares his father down, stares into those hard eyes with equally hard measure. He wants his father to see what he has wrought after years of disdain. Theon almost feels nothing for the man now; he doesn’t even want to. He doesn’t want to feel that sad ache that desperately tells Theon to try a little harder, try harder and maybe your father will love you.

He knows that will never happen.

Whatever Balon sees in his eyes causes him to finally look away. Without looking at Theon, he says lowly, “You know, I came back early from my trip. You want to know why?”

Theon almost cackles will cruel laughter because who gives a fuck? He’s trying to have a serious conversation about how his father ruined his damn outlook on life, twisted him up so bad that he’d enjoy the attention of a murderer and his father already is changing the subject. “Do tell, father. I’m sure it’s fucking fascinating.”

His father looks back at him, this time with a strange look in his eyes. “I got a call. From someone I haven’t spoken to in many years.”

Theon waits, refraining from rolling his eyes, another scornful trait from his father.

“I got a call from Roose Bolton.”

Just like that, Theon’s heart stops beating. That name is almost like a noose around his throat, he can’t breathe. _That can’t be good…that can’t be good…_

“I didn’t realize you associated with him,” Theon utters quietly, barely audible.

Balon scowls in disbelief. “You think Roose Bolton doesn’t know who you are? Of course I have associated with him before, boy. Business is business. He knows what house you belong to. He’s not stupid.”

“Okay.” Theon states with confusion. “What does him calling you have to do with me?”

Now Balon sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He looks at Theon with a strange calculation in his gaze, as if suddenly appraising him of something he had never seen before. “I was surprised myself. I haven’t dealt with him in years. He’s a slippery man, certainly not trustworthy. Imagine my surprise when I find he’s calling me about you and what you’ve done.”

Theon chokes on his own saliva. “ _What I’ve done_?”

His father laughs shortly. “You see, he thought it was some sort of scheme I had contrived. He was rather put out about it. I almost laughed. He actually thought I had put you up to it. Hah! As if you have ever listened to me, insolent boy.”

_ Fuck, Theon always loved when Ramsay called him insolent.  _

A cold feeling is overtaking Theon. “What are you talking about?”

Balon gets up swiftly and paces the room, going to stand beside the window, staring out at sea. “The man calls me up with that flat tone of his, wheedling around with his words. He likes his hidden word games, you see. I’ve not missed those these past few years. He starts out asking about how things have been, how business has been going. Like nothing has ever changed. Like no time has passed.”

Theon does not like where this story is going, his stomach turning sickly as his father continues.

“He then says to me, easy as you please, ‘that’s an impressive stunt you pulled, Balon. Impressive. I’d never dreamed that someone would come up with such a deed. But now, the fun and games are over. What is it that you want?’ Now, here’s me, Balon Greyjoy, completely at a loss. I sidestep his words and ask him what he’s after, because he’s the one who called me, after all. He should know that I don’t play games; I’m not that sort of man.”

His father turns away from the window to give Theon a blank look. Underneath that gaze, Theon feels like he’s being judged or appraised, but of what he isn’t sure. When his father doesn’t speak again, Theon clears his throat, surprisingly thick, and asks, “What did Roose Bolton want?”

An amused look enters his father’s sea-storm gaze. “He said to me, and I quote, ‘Balon, I want that boy of yours to stay away.’”

Theon blanches in horror. His father laughs cruelly at the expression on his face.

“Ah, yes, Theon. That’s what it came down to. Turns out you muzzled his rabid bastard. You know, the one Roose lords over anyone who does business with him. Threatens us with. ‘Oh, you’d best work this deal in my favor, wouldn’t want my bastard to pay you a visit, now do you?’ Hah! And here my own son has the monster on a leash. I’ve never laughed so hard.”

The cruel words set Theon’s mind spinning. He can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Roose Bolton knew who he was all along. Roose Bolton, who apparently has connections with Theon’s own father. The pit of corruption and lies just gets deeper and darker.

Trying to form a proper sentence, Theon licks his lips nervously, saying, “And Roose…he thinks that I did something…?”

Balon sneers. “Roose Bolton thinks I put you up to the whole scheme. He’s always set loose that hound of his after those that displease him or threaten him. But you’re a wrench in his finely oiled machine; you’ve turned his bastard’s head. Turns out, when it comes to you, suddenly the dog doesn’t listen to _daddy_ anymore.”

“He’s not a dog,” Theon snaps, furious on Ramsay’s behalf, ridiculously.

“So, it’s true then.” Balon looks at him in disgust. “You chose to be with him. Of your own free will.”

Theon fumes, doesn’t answer.

His father stares him down coldly and Theon can see disgust in every line of his face. Then, Balon scoffs disdainfully. “Ack. As distasteful as the whole situation is, perhaps we can use this. It’s a valuable asset to know that Roose won’t be able to move his chess piece against us at will…this gives me more options with our business…”

Blinking in disbelief, Theon steadies himself on the edge of his father’s desk. “An asset? A chess piece? We aren’t pawns in a fucking game.”

“Yes, you are. Well, he’s always been one. You...you’ve been the black sheep of our family. Roose has disregarded you for all these years due to that fact,” Balon replies sharply. “You put yourself on his radar now, boy, and in the worst way possible. Reap what you sow.”

Realization comes to Theon then, as it has been slowly dawning on him during this entire conversation. “Our business isn’t completely clean, is it?”

Balon rolls his eyes with exasperation. “Of course not you stupid child. You may look like Maron, but you certainly don’t have his brains.”

Theon scowls, face darkening. “They died, because of your dirty dealings, didn’t they?”

“It wasn’t the Bolton’s, if that’s what you’re thinking. Perhaps it would have never happened if I’d had Bolton backing me though. No one plays with that man if they can help it, no one wants to disappear in his dungeon.”

“How are you people not all in prison!?” Theon yells.

His father shrugs idly. “The game is old and spreads far. Corruption is everywhere. You play or you fade into nothing. You almost became nothing. Now, you’ve been pulled into the fold. We can use your…’relationship’ to our advantage.”

Hands clenching tightly, Theon huffs out an angry breath. An ugly sneer twists his face, years of anger and disappointment coming to a head. “If you think I want to play your game, you’re sadly mistaken. I’d rather send Ramsay after you before I let you use me like an emotionless object. For all the pain and suffering you caused me all my life.”

The words are dark, hideous things. Insinuating that Theon would actually ask Ramsay to kill Balon. Theon would never do such a thing, but he likes the way Balon looks at him with a mix of concern and grudging respect. His father has never looked at him with expression before; never.

But there it is.

“Perhaps I’ve misread you all these years,” Balon says, frowning at Theon, as if suddenly finding an opponent where he thought there had been none. “I always thought you were weak. Soft, like your mother. Couldn’t hurt a fly. But look; you’re just as dark and hateful as the rest of us. Have you always been like this or is this the bastard’s work?”

Theon lets an ugly expression shape his features as he gives a mock bow to his father. “I owe it all to you, _father_. I am what you shaped me into, after all. Congratulate yourself.”

Balon pours himself a snifter of scotch, looking unamused as he does so. “You’re a sly snake. I take it you won’t do as Roose Bolton asks? That could be trouble for our family, you know, one way or another.”

Theon idly picks up something on Balon’s desk and tosses it around in his palm, considering. He’d really love to smash it into his father’s face at this point. It was tempting earlier, but now Theon is mad and disgusted. “You’re both under the impression I’m in control of Ramsay Bolton. I’m not.”

That’s the cold truth. Besides, Ramsay cast Theon aside, told him to leave in the forest. As far a Theon is concerned, Ramsay is no longer concerned with Theon. Theon is probably dead to him, after all. The thought stings and Theon’s chest tightens.

_ You’re his. You’ll always be his. Even if you don’t want to be. Even if he terrifies you, you’ll always want him because you can’t fight your darker nature. _

“You’d better do what’s best for us Greyjoy’s!” Balon says, his voice rising.

Anger is a vision of red. “Oh, suddenly I’m a Greyjoy, too? You always fancied me a Stark,” Theon snaps, refraining from pouring himself a drink as well.

“You are a fucking Stark,” Balon mutters with ill intent.

Theon scoffs. “If I’m more Stark than Greyjoy, it’s because you never wanted me to belong here. I’ve never understood why.”

His father gives him a grim look. “No answer I ever give you will ever be what you want to hear.”

“I’ve always known that,” Theon spits, turning on his heel to leave his father to his scotch.

No conversation with his father has ever made Theon feel better; the hole in his heart remains open, empty.

A void that nothing can fill.  
  


* * *

 

Another week passes without change.

It’s much like hiding from the world, living on the island again. Theon speaks with Robb on the phone a few times, just to let him know where he is. He doesn’t mention anything about Ramsay, not wanting Robb to go do something stupid and rash.

Robb is like that; headstrong.

When the weather is rough, Theon sits out on the beach and watches the waves as they crash onto shore. He contemplates ending it all on days when the sky is dark, but something keeps him in place. He suffers on and wonders if this is what heartbreak feels like.

Because, he’s pretty sure it’s broke.

His heart, that is.

_Ramsay Bolton has grey eyes and midnight hair and somehow Theon finds it lovely._  
  


* * *

 

“There’s a call for you in father’s study,” Yara says softly one lazy afternoon.

She’s eyeballing Theon, who is lying haphazardly across their mother’s couch in the sun room. Theon always loved the sun, loved the sun best by the sea. Nowadays, not so much.

“Who is it?” Theon isn’t in the mood.

What part of wanting to be miserable in peace doesn’t anyone in this house understand? All Greyjoy’s are fucking miserable, it’s in their namesake. Kinda. A dreary, miserable grey, yet joyful about it?

Her face hardens, darkness in her eyes. “You know who. You’d better go answer that phone, baby brother.”

_Shit. It can’t be._

He sits up nervously, scratching the nape of his neck. With deliberate slowness, he makes his way to his father’s study, swallowing hard when he sees the phone on his father’s desk. _I’m not ready for this. Why is he calling? Why can’t this all just be the past?_

Inhaling deeply, mentally preparing himself, Theon picks up the phone.

“ _Theon_.”

A part of Theon sings at the sound of that painfully familiar drawl on the other end of the line, saying his name. Another part of Theon screams in terror, understanding that a murderer is speaking to him through a phone. A man who almost killed him.

But let him go.  

Theon inhales sharply, his only response, can’t find the words to say yet. Ramsay continues levelly, “I take it that you’ve been loyal, considering no cops have shown up at my door.”

Theon makes a noise that isn’t quite an answer.

_I’ve always been loyal to you._

“My father is furious,” Ramsay continues tightly. “He wants your head.”

Finally finding his voice, Theon says in a perfectly schooled tone that he’s proud of, “Your father is a lovely man.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere,” Ramsay says flatly. “He’s not a good man and neither am I.”

_Oh, like I don’t know that?_ Theon thinks, nearly rolls his eyes.

“You’re okay, I trust? Not damaged?” Ramsay presses eerily. Possessive. Wanting to know that a belonging is safe and unscathed.

_Mentally, I am completely fucked, thanks for asking,_ Theon thinks. _I still remember what it feels like when you’re pressing a gun to my forehead._

“Why are you calling me?” Theon asks aloud instead.

Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. Ramsay let him go, that should have been the end.

It should have been the end.

_No, he should have killed you and been done with it._

“Answer my question.” Ramsay replies flatly instead of answering Theon.

Theon sighs. “I’m alive.”

Ramsay makes a noise, perhaps one of relief. Perhaps just a scoff. “Good. It took some time to figure out where you went. But I found you,” Ramsay says darkly. “You should know, I’m calling on behalf of my _beloved_ father.”

Something cold and dark slides down into Theon’s belly, sick and disgusting. “I’m listening.”

“Good boy.” Theon can’t help the way he flushes despite there being no fondness in Ramsay’s voice. “As long as you don’t speak to the police or any authorities, we will leave you alone. You’ll be safe to return to your place, go on tour, whatever else the fuck you want. Just. No. Snitching.”

“Snitches get stiches, I got it,” Theon says blankly, barely seeing what’s in front of him.

He’s…safe?

“Snitches get body bags,” Ramsay corrects without pause.

“Right…” Theon mutters, mind miles away. He can go back to his apartment? He’s not going to be tracked down by hordes of Roose Bolton’s men and executed?

There’s a pause. Then Ramsay says, “That’s all you have to say to me?”

For a minute Theon is stunned. Is he supposed to say something? What is he supposed to say? He’s not prepared for this conversation. “Ah…thanks for not killing me? I appreciate that?”

“Christ, you’re thick in the head,” Ramsay hisses nastily and hangs up.

Theon stares at the phone in his hand and shakes his head. Whatever. That asshole has always been sensitive about random shit. Nothing about Ramsay has ever made sense and nothing is going to make sense now. All Theon knows is that Roose would love an excuse to see Theon dead, but as long as Theon toes the line, he’s safe for now.

Theon rubs his face, his eyes suddenly tired. His mind exhausted. He exits his father’s study and rounds the corner, seeing Yara standing there. Beside the other house phone.

“He’s nice,” Yara says with sarcasm, the other landline phone dangling from her fingers idly.

Theon scowls, turning red. “You were listening in?! What happened to some fucking privacy?”

“Yeah. Not interested in that,” she shrugs, dark hair falling over her forehead as she tilts her head, looking at him with amusement. “What is it about him? He’s essentially the worst parts of our brothers rolled into one.”

Theon shakes his head. “Oh, no. He’s far worse.”

And, he _is_.

Theon’s not going back. Not to him.

Not even if he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Comments and kudos fuel me!!! Let me know what you think.
> 
> We are almost to the finish line now. I honestly cannot tell if I'm going to have a chapter 22 or not. I will see how the flow of the next chapter goes. It may wrap, but it may not depending on emotional aspects so it may get extended.


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